Linguistics
by PokeyDotes
Summary: While investigating a series of strange behaviors in a small town, Dean inadvertently and regretfully finds the source, leaving Sam to sort it all out all while dealing with a sick and stubborn older brother.
1. Building a Picture

**I'm drawing a blank on how to introduce this thing. Just know it's already planned out and there might be a bit of bad language. I just don't really see Dean being a 'well, darn,' kinda guy.**

* * *

Sam doesn't remember it personally, he had been too young, but he knows that after their mother's death, Dean had kind of closed himself off from the rest of the world. He was quiet, almost to the point of being mute. Their dad had never mentioned it, and Dean sure as hell never brought it up, but Sam knows that his brother had a tendency to hold everything in and deal with his problems by not talking about them. He had learned that much from reading his father's journal, the early entries focusing more on learning the truth and dealing with the aftermath of Mary's death, Dean's selective silence included.

There had been other clues for Sam to follow, slowly gathering enough of the pieces to form a solid image, letting him know that Dean's refusal to talk about his feelings had started long before the boy could even spell 'emotion'. Bobby would hint at it every now and then, an offhand mentioning of Dean's stubbornness or thoughts spoken aloud, something along the line of thinking that 'the idgit had freaking outgrown that shit'.

Sam doesn't remember how he learned it, but he knows for a fact that Dean went to counseling the first year or two he was in school. It was more a product of the teachers worrying about the poor boy's welfare in dealing with his mother's death than John's wishes, but Dean had spent the majority of Kindergarten and first grade visiting a grief counselor, complete with puppets and crayons.

Before Dean had learned to mask his sadness and hide any misconstrued weaknesses, he would deal with his emotions through anger, silently lashing out at those that tried to help him. Teachers and counselors alike would tell him, "Dean, use your words. Tell us what's wrong." They had encouraged John to do the same, telling him to remind his son to 'use his words.'

Sam can't help thinking that if those teachers had been around long enough, they would have regretted introducing Dean to that phrase. "Dean, use your words," they had said. And he did. Boy, did he, but probably not in the way they had intended. Instead of telling them why he was angry, or what was making him sad, Dean had gone a whole other route. He had discovered sarcasm and a twisted sense of humor.

The quiet, little boy with soulful green eyes had grown into a snarky, witty hell-on-wheels young man with a devil-may-care attitude. Dean learned to use his words to fight off criticism, using an ill-timed joke as a shield against prying, well-meaning eyes. Dean talked a lot, but in a way, he was still silent.

Sam remembers instances where Dean's mask would slip, and the anger would lash out again, his brother angrily storming around the motel room or brooding against the passenger door. When John would notice, _if_ he noticed, he would yell at his son, telling him to 'use his words'.

Over the years, the phrase was used less and less in order to get Dean to talk, mostly because he had learned to deal with things better. Eventually, it got to the point that those three little words were said as a joke amongst the three Winchesters.

Once, John had stormed into the room, cussing a blue streak and slamming doors, Dean had waited for a break in the storm before telling his father, "Dad, use your words." At first, John had stood still, too stunned to continue his tirade before breaking out in a fit of laughter.

When Sam got older and started down the path of teenage angst, John and Dean would both jokingly say, "Now, Sammy. Use your words," usually resulting in an eye roll or an extended middle finger, depending on who said it.

It's been years since either brother has said it to the other. It had almost been forgotten, what with Sam's leaving for Stanford and everything that's happened since.

But now, in the shadow of the Hartfeld Memorial Psychiatric Hospital, Dean sitting against the opened trunk of the Impala, Sam thinks those teachers should have kept their mouths shut, or at least been more specific in telling Dean _how _to use his words.

Sam tosses the bloodied gauze on the ground and reaches into the trunk for a fresh one before pressing it against Dean's nose. "You know, we really should talk about your people skills."

Dean looks at him, and Sam can see the hint of sarcastic laughter in his brother's eyes despite the bruising and blood. "What do you mean?" Dean asks, raising his hand to take over holding the gauze, "I think I'm a ray of fuckin' sunshine."

Sam shakes his head, his mouth twisting in a derisive smile. "Yeah, tell that to Mr. Banner."

Dean rolls his eyes, removing the gauze to check and see if his nose is still bleeding. "The guy's a bit sensitive. Probably all those meds they got him on, doesn't mean I'm not a people person."

Sam scrunches his face in disgust as Dean reaches for another gauze before continuing to blow his nose in an attempt to clean out the rest of the blood. "That's true, but I think the fact that you were dumb enough to piss off a psych patient means you're not a people person." When Dean cocks an indignant brow, clearly insulted by his brother's assessment, Sam continues. "Dean, the guy slammed your face into the table."

Dean looks forward and studies the ground as he puts fresh gauze to his nose before finally nodding and shrugging his shoulders in defeat. _Maybe he isn't a people person, _he thinks as he works to remove his bloodstained tie. "So, while I was getting frisky with the Incredible Hulk, did you at least find out whether or not he's always been loony or are _his_ people skills just a friendly parting favor from this week's Big Bad?"

"Didn't the guy make you kiss the table because you compared him to the Hulk?" Sam asks, wiping his hands clean the best he can on a dark t-shirt.

"If the shoe fits," Dean answers, standing so Sam can close the trunk. "Besides, the guy's last name is Banner and he's got serious anger issues. I'm pretty sure I'm not the first one to have said it."

"You're probably the first one to say he looks like him."

"Hey," Dean says, resting his arm on the roof of the car as he points at his brother. "I said the green gown made him favor the Hulk, big difference."

Sam smiles, gesturing to his nose, pointing out that Mr. Banner obviously hadn't seen the difference.

Dean rolls his eyes and jerks the driver's door open. "Shut up, and get in the car." He starts the engine, and turns down the radio, ignoring Sam's laughter.

"Okay," Sam begins, loosening his own tie before extending his arm across the back of the seat, "According to Banner's records, he's always had a history of aggressive behavior, the most recent causing him six months of court ordered anger management."

Dean whistles and turns his head. "What'd he do?"

"Threw a fax machine out the sixth story window of his office building." Sam reaches into the inside pocket of his suit's jacket, pulling out the small notebook containing the notes he had taken while talking to the nurse. "Though, he's never shown anything this violent before," Sam reads, referring to the incident that landed Banner in the psychiatric hospital.

"Well, something made our boy take a tire iron to the mailman's head," Dean points out as he taps his thumb against the steering wheel, his other hand coming up to test his swollen nose. "It definitely wasn't possession."

Sam nods his head in silent agreement, squinting his eyes as he looks out the window. "First, an alcoholic drinking himself into a coma, a marathoner running herself to death, a lying politician with a death wish, and now a guy with a history of anger issues beating a stranger's head in. I've never heard of a demon with an MO like this."

"Cursed object?" Dean suggests as he eases the car onto the highway, taking them out of town.

"Could be," Sam shrugs, biting the inside of his thumb. The politician had been what caught their attention. The failed assassination was all over the news, and it hadn't been difficult for Sam to search the Internet and find footage of the small town mayor making a fool of himself. At first, Sam hadn't thought the speech was real, the ridiculous lies and comments spewing from the man's mouth seemingly more appropriate for an SNL skit than a mayoral debate. But reading the headline for the _Georgia Herald_ highlighting the Mayor's critical condition after an offended citizen showed his displeasure with a .45, Sam and Dean immediately thought to check it out.

Two days in the town, and the boys have realized that Mayor Dempsey isn't the only one acting out of character- or, really more _in_ character. Several people have suddenly taken their obsessions or bad habits to the extreme, so much so that they've resulted in death or injury.

Sam jumps out of his silent reverie when Dean starts coughing, loudly clearing his throat before sniffling, wincing as the movement crinkles his bruised nose.

"You need a cough drop?" Sam asks, watching as his brother works to catch a breath in between coughs. When Dean nods his head, too busy coughing to answer, Sam turns and leans over the back seat, searching the floorboard for a bottle of water.

When all he finds is a half-empty bottle of root beer, he hurriedly opens it and hands it to his brother, ignoring the lack of a hiss when he twists the lid.

Dean graciously takes the drink, working to keep one eye on the road as he chugs the flat soda. "Dude, that tastes like ass," he finally manages to say once he's drained the bottle, his voice a little raspy from the harsh coughing.

"You good?" Sam asks, pretending as though Dean hadn't spoken as he searches through his backpack for the cough drops. He had bought them almost two weeks ago when Dean first started coughing. Apparently, the cough's only gotten worse. "Here."

Dean takes the cough drop, propping his wrists on the steering wheel as he removes the wrapper. He cringes a little when the lemon-honey flavor of the lozenge blends with the stale taste of the root beer. Once the cough drop works to soothe his irritated throat, Dean moves it in between his teeth so he can talk.

"Any idea what a politician, a school teacher, a truck driver, and a secretary would have in common?"

"Nope. And Dean, we don't even know if they're the only ones who've been affected. For all we know, there could be others out there who are just as messed up, only we haven't heard about it because no one got hurt."

"Well, then we keep looking until we find out." With nothing more to say, they fall into an easy silence, Dean working the cough drop in order to stop the relentless itching in the back of his throat.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"What happened to you?" Linda, the motel's manager seems to always be around, much to Sam and Dean's displeasure. The woman has to be pushing sixty, and with the ever-present cigarette pinched between her arthritic fingers and the viscous Chihuahua at her heels, Dean thinks she looks more like that cartoon granny he always sees on coffee mugs and calendars.

"Ran into a door," he deadpans, as he walks past her, careful not to get too close to the vibrating canine rat resting at the foot of her lawn chair.

"Need to learn to keep your eyes open, boy. Knowing you, you were probably trying to see down some floozy's shirt when ya did it."

Dean stops and stares at the woman, wishing like hell she didn't take her cigarette breaks outside. Deciding it best not to say anything, he turns and follows his laughing brother to their room, sending a well-aimed kick to Sam's shin as he fumbles with the key.

"What the hell does that mean? She doesn't even know me."

Sam pushes the door open, and grins. "Apparently, she does."

"Dude, this was the result of a psycho and a table, not a floozy and a door," Dean points out, rubbing his finger along the bridge of his nose.

"Would you like me to go correct her? Defend your honor? Ask her to apologize?" Sam asks, his voice dripping with false sincerity as he works to remove his tie.

Dean's glare only makes Sam laugh harder. "You're an asshole," Dean mutters removing his jacket and working on the buttons of his bloodied shirt.

Sam watches as Dean makes his way towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. "Yeah, I think it might be genetic," Sam yells, listening to the sound of the cheap motel's squeaking faucets and running water.

"All the more proof that you were adopted," Dean snaps back, his voice muffled by the bathroom door.

Sam rolls his eyes and opens his laptop, intent on figuring out how the victims are all connected. Clarksville, Georgia isn't a very large town. It's located off the Interstate, and mainly consists of one road lined with fast food chains, and a scattering of mom and pop shops, with an occasional buy-here-pay-here car dealership. Nothing fancy.

Their motel is one of several in town, the cheapest and the one least likely to ask a lot of questions—or so they had thought. Linda has proven to be a nuisance, constantly keeping tabs on the people coming and going within her motel.

Sam can hear Dean coughing in the shower, the hot steam most likely loosening up whatever congestion his brother's pretending not to have. Sam knows that there's at least two different cold medicines in Dean's duffle, each unopened and unused. It's not so much that Dean refuses to accept the fact that he's sick, it's that he refuses to accept the fact that being sick limits what he's capable of doing. Combine that with the fact that cold medicine has a history or knocking both of them flat on their asses, and Sam can kind of understand why Dean continues to act as though the medicine isn't even there.

Although Sam knows it's only a matter of time before one of two things happen. Either Dean continues to ignore the problem until it gets worse and _can't _be ignored, or something will come up and Dean will use his sickness as an excuse to get out of it. The same thing happened a few years back when they had to dumpster dive. Much to Sam's chagrin, Dean had chosen _that_ moment to accept the fact that he was sick, and that it would probably be best if he took it easy.

Sam thrums his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the slow connection to allow him access to the Internet. He sees the little hourglass turning in the corner, the little bar slowly turning blue, telling him that the page is loading. He leans his head back and runs his hands tiredly over his face. He hates not knowing what they're dealing with, the beginning stages of research are always the worst, mostly because there's too many possibilities.

It's times like this he wishes he could call Bobby.

He looks back at the screen, frustrated to see nothing but a blank screen. Standing to stretch his legs, he loosens the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up as he waits for the page to load. The sound of sirens approaching catches his attention.

Sam quickly steps towards the window, pulling aside the heavy curtain as his eyes search for the approaching vehicles. It isn't long before the sight of three police cruisers come into view, speeding past the motel and further down the road.

Sam turns when he hears the bathroom door pull open. Dean peeks his head out, his short hair plastered to his head, water dripping down his face as he looks to Sam expectantly. "What was that?" Dean asks, wiping the water from his eyes.

"Hopefully, our next lead," Sam answers, already reaching for his jacket.

TBC...


	2. Ask and You Shall Receive

"It's got as much sparkle as a table cloth. I'm guessing plastic," Dean none-to-quietly observes as he studies the bank's large chandelier. The ends of his hair are still wet, the borrowed blood-free shirt of Sam's a little long in the cuff as he stands with his hands in his pockets, waiting for the deputy to finish questioning the bank manager. He feels the godforsaken tickle return to the back of his throat. He slants his eyes, glancing sideways at his brother before trying to discretely clear his throat.

Sam doesn't say anything, he doesn't even look at him. He simply reaches into his pocket and hands Dean a cough drop the moment he hears the gargled hum.

Dean purses his lips as he studies the offered drop. "Thanks," he says grudgingly. He's starting to think his tongue is going to be permanently stained yellow from all the lemon-honey cough drops he's consumed in the last couple of weeks. "So, guess we can add a lawyer to the list now," Dean says, the cough drop rattling against his teeth.

Sam nods, his face doing that scrunchy thing, again, the one where he's trying to think something out. "Why would a lawyer rob a bank?" he asks, looking over his shoulder as the body of the late David Jeffries is loaded into the back of the coroner's van.

His only answer is a muffled crack as Dean crunches the cough drop.

"Agents?" Sam and Dean both look up as the deputy walks towards them, a plain disc in his hands as he carefully navigates over the opened bag lying on the floor, a large portion of the bank's money scattered about, drops of Jeffries blood securing the bills to the floor. "Manager burned you a copy of the security footage," the young man says with a nervous smile.

Dean simply smiles as Sam takes the disc. They can both tell the deputy is as green as a Granny Smith Apple, baby faced and barely old enough to drink. Sweet-talking him into giving them information on their angry psych patient Mr. Banner had almost been too easy. When they showed up at the bank, the deputy had been all too happy to see them again, wanting to help the FBI any way he can.

"Thanks, Deputy," Sam says, tucking the disc in the inner pocket of his jacket. Dean claps his brother on the shoulder and gestures towards the bank manager, silently saying for Sam to finish talking with the Deputy while Dean talks to their witness.

"Mr. Young?" Dean says, quickly swallowing the last crunched pieces of the cough drop as he smiles assuredly at the shaken bank manager. "I'm Agent Roberts, do you think you can tell me exactly what happened?" He does the standard flip of the badge, the one patented by almost every crime show that aired before the year 2000, before loosening his tie, hoping to ease the constriction on his burning throat.

Mr. Young's eyes glance suspiciously at Dean's swollen discolored nose before following Dean's hands nervously, his own spinning the aged wedding ring around his finger as he blinks rapidly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he prepares to tell the story yet again. "Dave just came in, put the bag on the counter and then started waving a gun, screaming for Melanie to fill it with money," he gestures to the blood-stained bag on the floor.

"Dave?" Dean asks, catching on to the manager's use of the guy's first name. "Did you know David Jeffries personally?" Dean casts a glance towards his brother, insuring that he's still within eyesight before turning his attention back to the man in front of him.

"Uh, yeah," Mr. Young looks up, squinting red-rimmed eyes. "We're neighbors."

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise, giving a short, breathy laugh. "Huh, no kiddin'." He feels the itch again, forcing him to hold up one finger, asking for the manager to wait a moment while he turns and clears his throat. The cough echoes in the large bank, the tiled floors and marble counter tops doing nothing to muffle the sound.

Dean doesn't have to turn around to know every eye is on him, including Sam's. "So did Dave ever give you any hint that he was planning on robbing you?" Dean asks, pretending as though nothing had happened, that he hadn't come close to hacking up a lung two seconds before.

The look of confusion on the manager's face is almost laughable, and Dean has to bite the inside of his lip to keep from doing just that. "What do you mean?" Mr. Young asks.

"You know," Dean begins, waving one hand in the air absently, tilting his head as he thinks of an example. "Did he ask about the bank a lot, how much money was in here, what kind of security you got in place, you know, not the typical Tuesday night bridge conversations?"

Dean squints his eyes as Mr. Young starts to fiddle with his wedding ring again, a nervous tick. "He, uh…to tell you the truth, agent, I haven't really spoken with him in a while."

"Why's that?"

"Well, he just…we just haven't." There's an air of finality in the manager's tone, evident that he wishes Dean would just let it go. Of course, Dean being Dean…

"Mr. Young, why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything I need to know?" Dean lets a slight hint of a threat seep into his voice, his hands crossing one in front of the other as he squares his shoulders.

The manager glances out the door, the coroner's van still within view. His let's out a huff of air, his eyes darting nervously from the floor to Dean. "It's just, Dave was a nice guy, but…"

"But what?" Dean asks, his patience running low as he feels the rattle in his chest, his eyes burning.

"But, the guy's dead, you know?" Mr. Young leans in, whispering conspiratorially, not wanting anyone to know he's on the verge of speaking ill of the deceased.

Dean nods, once again checking that Sam's still within eyesight before taking a step towards the nervous bank manager. "Listen," Dean says, whispering to match the manager's tone, "You see my partner over there?" He waits for the manager's eyes to dart over his shoulder before continuing. "I love the guy like a brother, I mean, really I do," Dean says, placing a hand over his heart for effect, "but the guy's got flaws, just like everybody else. I mean, he whines, and broods, and does _not_ know how to let things go. I'm almost positive he could give you a list a mile long about all my problems, and I'm

sure your wife could come up with a thing or two about you that drives her batty. My point is, we all got issues, that doesn't mean we're not all 'nice' guys. Do you understand?"

Mr. Young hesitates for a moment before nodding. Dean smiles reassuringly, nodding along with him. "Good, now Dave was a nice guy, _but_…" he says, opening the floor for the manager to finish.

"He was a nice guy but…the last few weeks he was acting really weird," Mr. Young admits, his voice still low, his eyes still darting about.

Dean nods, fighting the urge to smile now that they're finally getting somewhere. "Weird how?"

To Dean's surprise, Mr. Young lets out a slight laugh, shaking his head as he studies the floor, one twitchy hand rising to scratch his eyebrow. "Dave's always been a greedy guy, I mean he was the go to attorney if you wanted to sue someone. Made a killing too, I'm talking six figures a year easy."

Dean nods, feeling a little bit of pride in his interrogation technique now that the manager seems more than willing to share.

"But a couple of weeks ago, he started going overboard, you know? I mean, getting all obsessive over where he bought stocks, wanted to buy a new car, a second house." Dean watches as the manager's smile turns sad, his voice faltering near the end. "I don't get it. Dave had money, why do this?"

"That's a good question," Dean tells him, wondering the exact same thing. When he sees Sam finally manage to extract himself from the enthusiastic deputy, Dean claps the manager on the shoulder, "Thanks for your time, Mr. Young."

"So, did you learn anything useful?" Sam asks, his tone making it clear that he had not.

"Only that our lawyer has always been a little on the greedy side." Dean sticks his hands in his pockets, his voice low, his eyes scanning the small crowd out of habit as they walk towards the front doors.

"But recently became greedy enough to rob a bank," Sam adds, tilting his head back in understanding as the pieces start to fall in place.

"Or tried to," Dean corrects, turning to watch the coroner's van drive away. He's about to ask Sam what the deputy had to say when his throat constricts, burning as he's forced into another coughing fit, his eyes watering, his lungs on fire.

Sam's already reaching for another cough drop when Dean turns, the coughing turning to gagging as he reaches a hand to the side of the building, using it for support as he begins to be sick. Sam stands to the side, waiting for the retching to ease.

"You good?" he asks when Dean finally straightens from his hunched position. An indignant snort is his only answer. Dean angrily wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as he starts walking towards the car. Sam simply rolls his eyes and follows.

He waits until Dean's settled in the car, the keys reaching for the ignition before leaning over and placing his hand against his brother's forehead.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean asks, pressing his shoulder into the door as he leans away from Sam and his overly concerned eyes.

"You've got a fever, Dean," Sam tells him, his tone accusing, both daring and waiting for Dean to argue.

"Just keep your hands to yourself," Dean says, turning the ignition and looking anywhere but at Sam. He doesn't bother denying it, he knows he has a fever. He's had one for a while now if the craptastic way he feels is any indication. His skin friggin' hurts. He's hot on the inside but cold on the out, he's got a pressure behind his eyes that's threatening to give a reenactment of Beetlejuice any moment, and he's pretty sure he just left a diner's worth of partly digested bacon and eggs on the bank's sidewalk. Hell yes he has a fever.

"Dean…" Sam begins, and Dean can _feel_ the condescension in the way his brother says his name.

"Look Sammy, lets just figure this out then I'll lay down like a good little boy, drink my chicken soup, and let you play Momma Hen, but till then drop it."

"Whatever," Sam says, slumping against the passenger door. Dean tries not to smile as Sam's body language begins to scream 'My brother's an asshole.'

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

The next logical step is to question David Jeffries widow, try to find out what had caused the change in behavior. Only problem is, they have to wait for the sheriff's office to let her in on the fact that she's now a widow, that her husband went to the local First National and decided to shoot it out with the cops—key word being tried.

"Dude, you look like shit." Sam watches as Dean stumbles from the bathroom, his shirt untucked and opened as he crashes face first onto the bed. "Why don't you just stay here?"

Dean rolls his head, pulling the pillow closer as he works to kick his shoes off. "Sam, I swear to god—"

"You've been sick like three times already. This woman just lost her husband, the last thing she needs is for you spilling it all over her couch."

"I'm not gonna puke on the woman's couch," Dean insists stubbornly, awkwardly managing to climb beneath the covers without moving from his prone position. "Besides, we still gotta a little while, maybe I'll be better by then."

Sam bites his tongue, willing the mature adult inside to resist pointing out that Dean more or less just admitted that he's sick. He grabs his phone and checks the screen, "Deputy Adams said he'd call when Mrs. Jeffries was leaving the station. We still got a few hours before the coroner finishes up with the body." He stands, walking towards the bed and holding out a hand, palm up. "Give me the keys, I'll go get us something to eat."

Dean grumbles, but fishes in his pockets for the car keys, the side of his face smashed against the pillow. Sam just accepts the keys, resisting the need to check his brother's temperature despite the flushed face and glassy eyes looking back at him resentfully.

"I'll be right back."

"Whatever."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Trying to balance a styrofoam cup of chicken soup and steering the Impala at the same time is not an easy feat, and makes Sam more than glad that Dean isn't in the car. It wouldn't be so bad if the streets near the motel weren't speckled with potholes every few feet.

Deputy Adams had called while he was waiting for his brother's soup, letting him know that David Jeffries widow had been informed of her husband's death and would be expecting a visit from the FBI later this evening. Sam had to smile at that, the deputy's eagerness to help was making his and Dean's job a lot easier than usual.

He pulls the car into one of the available parking spaces, using the palm of his hand to wipe away the few drops of soup that had managed to splash over the lid and land on the seat. Dean'll never know.

Sam braces himself as he spots Linda in her usual seat outside the lobby's door, the smell of nicotine wafting towards him. As he steps closer, watching as she peels open a new pack of cigarettes, he notices the sad look on her face, the way she tries to blink back tears.

"Everything okay?" he asks keeping his distance, not wanting to get too close should she be offended that he asked.

She looks up, startled by his question. "Yeah, I'm fine," she tells him, holding up the pack of cigarettes as evidence. "Just peachy," she adds, looking back to the pack and shaking her head before pulling a cigarette loose.

Sam nods and takes a step towards his and Dean's room, leaving the motel's manager to whatever problems she has. He frowns when he hears Dean's muffled cough through the door. He swears it sounds like there's an ocean rattling around in his brother's chest.

"I got you some soup," he says by way of greeting. Dean merely lifts his head off the pillow, squinting his eyes as the late afternoon sun filters through the open door.

"Chicken?" Dean asks, reaching out for the styrofoam cup.

"Yep." Sam hands his brother the soup, watching as Dean takes a large sip before wincing. "It might be hot," he warns a second too late.

"Deputy call yet?" Dean asks, setting the hot soup on the side table before burying himself beneath the covers. Sam looks up to the ceiling as he readies for another go at trying to convince Dean to stay.

"Yeah he called, but listen," he begins, reaching for the duffle at the foot of his bed, his hand digging inside for one of the cold medicines. "How are you feeling right now?"

Dean opens one eye, watching as his brother walks towards the head of the bed and sets a bottle of medicine next to the soup. "Honest answer?"

Sam laughs, shaking his head. "That would be nice."

Dean buries deeper in the cocoon of blankets, "I've felt better."

"I figured as much," Sam says, tapping his finger on the top of the bottle of cold medicine. "You want to take some of this now?"

"Not particularly," Dean answers, turning to face the other way.

"You want to tell me why not?" Sam counters, walking to the other side of the bed.

"Not particularly," Dean repeats, sounding every bit the part of the petulant child.

Sam climbs onto his brother's bed, resting his back against the headboard as his legs stretch out in front of him. He feels Dean shift beneath the covers, pulling the dulled sheets up further over his head, completely hiding himself from Sam's view.

Used to Dean's obstinate demeanor, Sam slowly intertwines his hands in his lap, letting one thumb rub over the other as he sighs patiently, tilting his head to look down at the bundled form barely recognizable as his brother.

He tries to keep any decipherable forms of patronizing out of his voice as he clears his throat and attempts for the umpteenth time to talk sense into his stubborn, older brother. "Dean. We both know there's no way you're gonna be able to go. So, why don't you just take the medicine, and try to rest, like you're supposed to."

A muffled snort, quickly followed by a sickeningly wet coughing sound is the only answer Sam receives. He blows out a huff of air, causing his cheeks to puff out as he waits for the coughing to subside. Trying his best not to smile, Sam leans towards the bundle, his voice taking on a falsely sweet quality.

"Dean, use your words."

Sam can't help it as the corners of his mouth quirk up, dimples forming when he hears Dean's hoarse and angry response of "Fuck. You."

"Drink your soup," Sam tells him, climbing off the bed and heading towards the door. "I'll be back later." He doesn't wait for a response, he simply closes the door behind him, letting his smile spread as he hears a litany of colorful words flow from beneath the covers.

He'll only be gone a few hours, no biggie. It's not like Dean's gonna go out looking for trouble.

TBC...

* * *

**I promise the next few chapters will pick up with the action. I just need to lay a little ground work.**


	3. Easy as Pie

**Just want to say thanks to those still reading this, and even more so to those who have alerted/favorited it.**

* * *

Dean doesn't know how long Sam's been gone or how long he's been buried beneath the heavy, scratchy blankets. He sits up in bed, the pressure behind his right eye building with the change in elevation. He glances towards the soup, frowning when he sees the oily film that's settled on the top, bits of fat and vegetables floating along the rim.

Breathing in deeply only to cough for his efforts, Dean swings his legs over the bed, slipping his feet back into his shoes. He feels to make sure his wallet's still in his back pocket before heading towards the door, buttoning his shirt along the way.

The gas station is just down the street, a short walk from their room. It's early enough that the streetlights still haven't come on despite the sun having fallen behind the distant buildings.

Each sniffle is annoying at best, scrunching the swollen bridge of his nose painfully. He doesn't get sick often, but when he does, he _really _does. Food poisoning, bronchitis, chicken pox, the flu—doesn't matter, it hits him, and it hits him hard.

There's a small bell over the door, a generic chime that echoes through the store as he walks in. He figures he must look as bad as he feels judging by the cashier's scrutinizing stare. He simply smiles at her, making his way towards the back, his eyes trained on the hot foods.

Hotdogs, burritos, some deep-fried tortilla thing with cheese oozing out the end. Choices, choices. Dean exhales, his mouth doing a bored imitation of a motorboat as he studies the variety with a discerning eye. Normally, he'd go for the mystery roll, the thing deep-fried and screaming 'eat me', but normally he wouldn't have to worry about how it'll taste coming back up.

He isn't stupid, or in denial. He knows he's sick. To listen to Sam, you'd think Dean would walk around with his arm hanging by a few tendons, trying to convince the world that he's fine. No, Dean doesn't pretend that he's okay, he just knows the limitations of his body. A freaking cold and busted nose doesn't warrant a Sam-mandated bed rest. It does however warrant a pickier pallet when it comes to choosing convenience store cuisine.

Two hotdogs in hand, Dean makes his way to the 'health' aisle, which turns out to be two shelves crammed full of condoms, half-priced pregnancy tests, some antacids, and a surprisingly wide variety of cough drops. Deciding that cherry is the opposite of lemon-honey, Dean makes a few more rounds through the store, stocking up on liquids and a few bags of M&Ms before stopping at the counter.

"You doing okay?" the woman asks, her smile kind despite her earlier scrutiny. Dean doesn't hold it against her. She's working the evening shift of a rundown gas station across the street from the cheapest motel in a twenty-mile radius. He'd call her an idiot if she hadn't eyed him with caution.

"Yeah, pretty good," Dean tells her. She may have believed him if he hadn't followed it up with a rattling cough aimed at the bend of his elbow.

"There's a pharmacy about three miles up the road," she offers, placing all of his items in a tall paper bag. "They got cold medicine and stuff."

Dean smiles, reaching for his wallet and this week's credit card. "Nah, I've got that taken care of," he tells her kindly, thinking he might just take Sam up on that offer and down a few swigs of the cold medicine. Hell, Sam's a big boy. He can talk to a widow and get a blood report all on his lonesome, and Dean can choke down a few stale hotdogs and take advantage of an acute medically induced pseudo-coma.

The sound of the door chiming catches his attention. An older woman, probably pushing seventy walks in, her arms laden with cream-colored boxes, causing her to tilt her head to see where she's going, her oversized bifocals threatening to fall off her nose.

Dean puts his wallet back in his pocket and reaches a hand out, steadying the top two boxes, saving them from hitting the ground. "Do you need any help?" he asks, his voice sounding raspy and thick.

"Oh, bless you," she says, practically throwing the boxes into Dean's arms. Dean doesn't mind helping, in fact he had offered, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been expecting a 'no thanks, I got it.'

"Uh, where do you want 'em," he asks, and she smiles a smile full of artificially straight teeth, nodding towards the counter, the cashier already moving his bag out of the way.

He knows his sense of smell has been warped for a while, at least the last two days, add that to the fact that his nose got pounded into a sterilized table maybe twelve hours ago, it's safe to say unless it's jammed into his sinus cavity, he isn't going to smell it. That's made all the more evident when he sits the boxes down and looks through the little plastic window on the top box. Pies. Homemade, straight out of the oven, pies. They even have that little criss-cross thing going on, the way Snow White would have done it, and Dean couldn't even smell 'em.

"Oh, are you all right?" the pie lady asks, taking a step into Dean's personal space. She tilts her head back, those bifocals trained on the bruising around his nose.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he tells her, taking a step back towards the counter. "Sneezed and ran into a door." It's embarrassing as hell, but it sounds somewhat believable, especially since he has all the telltale signs of the flu, hoarse voice and stunted enunciation included—he's almost certain that 'I'm fine' just came out 'I'm fide'.

When she looks as though she's about to reach a hand out and feel his forehead for a fever, the cashier intervenes on his behalf, handing the older woman a dark moneybag, leaning over the counter to place it in between Dean and the pie lady.

"Here you go, Jean. You managed to sell all of them this time." The pie lady, or Jean according to the cashier, looks at her confusedly for a moment before grinning and taking the bag.

She smiles at Dean, pointing an aged finger towards the stack of boxes. "I make them myself. Completely home made," she says, nodding her head as she does, before she gets that look, the one where a light bulb should be popping up over her head because she's just had a great idea. "Sweetie, why don't you take one. On me," she says, grabbing the top box and pressing it against Dean's chest.

Dean stares at her for a moment, trying to get past the lady's overly sweet Grandma routine, before what she's saying really sinks in. He smiles shyly, something he's perfected before he made it to high school, "I couldn't…"

"Nonsense," she tells him, pushing the box once more into his chest, before patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. "For helping an old woman, and being such a gentleman."

That shy smile takes on a crooked stance as Dean once again looks at the pie—the _free_ home made apple pie. "Well, if you insist," he says, earning another pat on the shoulder and a warmer smile from Granny Jean.

He leaves the two women to finish their business, a pie in one hand and a bag of supplies in the other. Sam's still not back by the time he makes it to their room. He balances the pie and bag in one hand as he opens the door, dipping his head in greeting to Linda as she smokes away, that friggin Chihuahua growling at her feet.

Dean ignores the hotdogs, choosing instead to ease down at the motel's table, his pocket knife in hand as he opens the pie box. He leans forward, attempting to smell the pie, but with only one nostril working and only somewhat at that, he's pretty sure the smell of cinnamon is more in his head than anything else.

Cutting a slice and eating it with his fingers, he sits back contently, smiling as he chews the soft baked pieces of apple. It's pretty damn good, not the best he's ever had, but still in the top five.

He wipes his fingers on his pants leg, as he reaches in the bag for a bottle of Gatorade. He swishes the cool liquid in his mouth, his eyes focused on the cold medicine resting across the room. He takes another sip of his drink, letting it soothe his sore throat before standing and getting ready for bed.

Shoes, pants, shirt all off, he plops down on the mattress, the springs squeaking beneath his weight. Having learned from past experience that it's best not to go to bed armed when any drugs are involved, he reaches under his pillow, grips the handle of the large knife stored below and tosses it onto Sam's bed.

Once again reminding himself that Sam is a big boy, perfectly capable of interviewing a few people on his own, Dean twists the cap from the bottle on the table and takes a few questionably sized swigs, hoping it'll convince the techno beat behind his right eye to call it a night.

He's fast asleep before Sam even makes it back.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

The home's disorganized, boxes spread out along the edge of the room, labels from Amazon, eBay, FedEx all plastered on the side. Sam can see two separate computers from where he's sitting, both different brands but both top of the line.

"He wasn't always like this," Mrs. Jeffries explains, snapping Sam's attention back to the woman in front of him. "I mean, the last few weeks…" she trails off, dipping her head, her hair curtaining her face as she studies the mug of coffee in her hands.

"Mrs. Jeffries, I know this is difficult," Sam begins, his voice soft and compassionate, because, yeah, he does know, "but I need to know exactly when your husband's behavior began to shift and, if possible I need you to be as specific as possible when you explain how."

He figures she's still in a state of shock, still trying to process the fact that she just got back from the morgue to identify her husband's body, because she doesn't question why Sam's asking the questions he is, doesn't find it weird that he had wanted to know if her husband had mentioned any cold spots, if anything 'out of the ordinary' had been happening around their house.

"Um, I think it was around the time his boss came over for dinner," she begins tilting her head and looking to the side, searching her memory. "Dave's been trying to make partner, and…well, after dinner, he just…as soon as they left he was online, trying to sell our stocks, looking to invest in something bigger, something that would bring us more money."

Sam nods, his mind already going to the next question, but she stops him with an anguished sob as she wipes her nose. "The worst part was all the crying," she tells him, her face taking on a look of hurt and anger. "He wanted to stop, he would sit at the computer, buying anything and everything, scheming on how to make more money, but he would get frustrated and…he would cry." The way she says it, and the look she gives Sam tells him that David Jeffries wasn't a man that cried often.

"I would tell him to just stop, that we didn't need all this stuff, but he said he couldn't stop. He _wanted _to, but…"

"He couldn't," Sam finishes, earning another sob and a stinted nod. She can't remember anything else specific, nothing other than her husband's greed spinning out of control, stopping only when a deputy showed up at her door a few hours earlier, his hat in his hand.

Sam lets himself out, rubbing tiredly at his brow as he makes his way back to the car. Reaching into his pocket, he grabs his phone, pressing speed dial as he waits for his brother to pick up.

"_This is Dean. Can't answer the phone right now. Either try my other phone or—"_

Sam hangs up, tossing the phone into the passenger seat onto the manila folder, covering the emblem for the county morgue, David Jeffries' unremarkable blood results tucked away inside.

The drive is quiet, the radio off as he heads towards the edge of town. He's surprised to see Linda has taken her chair inside, the cool night air forcing her to smoke at the front desk.

He's even more surprised to find Dean spread out on the bed, his arms spread wide as though he's claiming the entire mattress as his own, daring anyone to try and take it from him. He smiles a little when he sees the line of drool making its way to Dean's pillow, his mouth open since he can't breathe through his nose.

Sam lets the smile fade as he takes in the sight of his own bed. Dean had used it as a storage space. Pants, a shirt, a knife all tossed amongst the pillows. Recognizing the knife as being the one usually stashed beneath his brother's pillow, Sam looks towards the nightstand, his eyes measuring the amount of medicine in the bottle.

Smiling, both because his stubborn brother finally gave in and because the opportunity is just too good to pass up, Sam grabs his phone and takes a picture of Dean, drool and all before settling down at the table.

He pushes the remains of a pie out of his way, cringing at the amount of crumbs on the table as he pulls his laptop to him. He doesn't really know what to look up, what magic words to type into the search engine that could bring up any answers as to what's going on. Giving up, he makes to clean off his bed and take advantage of a few hours sleep.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Dean opens his eyes and rubs his face on the pillow, choosing to ignore the fact that there's more saliva on the pillowcase than in his mouth. The room is brightly lit, the sun shining through the window, wavering fluorescent lights filtering through the opened bathroom door.

Sam is standing in the doorway, brushing his teeth as he waits for Dean to fully wake up. "How you feelin'? he asks around a mouthful of toothpaste.

Dean groans in reply, or at least he thinks he does. He rolls over onto his back, digging his palms into his eyes as he attempts to wipe away the sleep. He lets his tongue run over his teeth, trying to get the juices going again before trying to speak. He feels his mouth move, feels his tongue flit around inside, but that's about it. No sound, no vibrations in his throat. Hell, he isn't even sure air is coming out.

He tries again, only to have the same result. Sitting up, pushing past the crappy vertigo brought on by the action, Dean looks to his brother. Sam's frowning, the toothbrush halfway to his mouth as he watches Dean's face adopt a look part confusion, part panic, and part pissed off.

"Dean?" Sam asks when he still hasn't received an audible answer.

Dean points to his mouth, his eyes wide as his lips begin to move. Sam takes a step forward, frown intensifying as he works to read his brother's lips.

'_I can't talk'_ they say, and Sam stops, the toothbrush dropping to his side as he looks at Dean.

Sounding tired, like a school principal greeting a repeat offender, he looks at his brother and asks, "What did you do?"

* * *

**So, I haven't asked for reviews, mostly because I thought that it was implied, but...yeah, they're more than welcome.**


	4. Say What Now?

Sam's never really realized just how expressive his brother's body language is. Dean doesn't _have _to say anything for Sam to know what he's thinking. One look at his face and Sam instantly knows when Dean's hiding something, when he's pissed. He can tell when his brother's sporting the cat-ate-the-canary look that he's happy and cocky about it. Every so often, Dean attempts to do the whole 'innocent' eyes thing, trying his best to deflect blame. But then he turns around and does the opposite, that dark eyed brooding thing, the one where Sam can tell he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, a full on Dean Winchester self-imposed guilt trip, party of one.

Right now, Dean's furious. Of course, Sam doesn't really have to read Dean's body language to know that. In fact, he's fairly certain that pretty soon the whole motel is gonna know Dean's pissed, because for a guy that's lost his voice, he sure is loud.

"Dean, chill. Just give me a minute to think, okay?" Sam asks, wiping the last bits of dried toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. Dean's still pacing back and forth, wearing a pattern in the carpet between the beds and the air conditioner. He's still in his boxers, the t-shirt he had worn beneath his dress shirt wrinkled from having been slept in. Every so often, he'll get mad, slamming his fist against the table, the wall, kicking the bed only to regret it the moment the box spring comes in contact with his shin.

Sam turns on the computer, not really knowing what else to do. It's like a safety blanket, a google-cure-all. Well, most of the time. Right now, he just needs a way to communicate with his irate older brother.

"All right, without breaking my computer, I want you to tell me everything you did while I was gone yesterday." Sam turns the laptop around, the blank word document already opened, the curser blinking in the upper corner.

Dean glares at him for a moment, before slowly crossing the room and jerking the chair back, plopping down in front of the computer. He takes a few seconds, sorting out his thoughts before he begins typing, a wet cough breaking the silence every so often.

Sam sits with his elbows on his knees, one leg bouncing impatiently as Dean types. Dean can mouth the words, his lips, tongue, and jaw working to form each syllable, but only silence. The first few minutes after Dean woke up, Sam had thought he was completely mute, his voice stolen, completely incapable of making a sound. But then Dean hit a coughing fit, the cough sounding just as loud and present as it had the day before.

If he listens, he can hear a slight wheeze when his brother takes a deep breath, a rattle in between coughs, just no words, no audible forms of communication. Sam thinks back to the meeting with Jeffries' widow, to how she had said he wanted to stop buying things, but couldn't.

David Jeffries was greedy, Justin Banner is angry, Mayor Dempsey a compulsive liar, Dean Winchester incapable of communicating. Sam knows it's in his best interest not to point that out.

Dean lets out an annoyed huff of air, pushing the laptop across the table and sitting back, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. He's squinting his eyes, his mouth slightly pursed as he waits for Sam to read through his short narrative.

He wants to ask what's going on, why Sam's got that look on his face, the one he gets when he's borderline figuring something out. Leaving the computer, Sam stands and crosses the room, fishing for his phone. Dean waves, holding his hands out and raising his eyebrows in a universal _what's going on _gesture.

Sam simply holds up a finger, telling Dean to wait a moment as the person he's calling answers the phone.

"Hi, Mrs. Jeffries? This is Agent Paige. Sorry, I know it's early, but I need to ask you a question," Sam licks his lips, knowing already how crazy and random the question's going to sound. "You wouldn't happen to remember what you served that night your husband's boss came to dinner would you?"

Dean quirks an eyebrow, his mind trying to catch up on whether or not his brother's lost it.

"What about desert?" Sam asks, his eyes flicking towards the table, the remains of Dean's free pie still resting by the brown paper bag. Dean follows his brother's gaze, frowning when he starts to put two and two together. He turns back to Sam, tilting his head, waiting for Sam to confirm what they're both thinking.

"Did you happen to eat any of the pie…No, no, Mrs. Jeffries, that's got nothing to do with what happened, I just…" Sam looks to Dean, silently asking for a cover story. When Dean simply shakes his head, his hand coming up to imitate a talking mouth, Sam rolls his eyes and rushes out the lie, ready to get off the phone. "It's just needed for the report. Crossing all the T's and…stuff." Dean smirks at the complete look of discomfort on his brother's face.

"Well, that's one thing you and Jeffries have in common," Sam says after ending the call.

Dean shakes his head, slamming his fist on the table, the laptop and pie shaking from the force.

"Dean…" Sam says in that soothing you're-being-unreasonable voice. Dean just continues to shake his head, grabbing the laptop and typing again. When he spins the computer around, showing Sam the screen, Sam can't help smirking, a little laugh breaking through at the words typed in bold print.

**BITCH POISONED MY PIE.**

"Maybe," Sam tells him, already dialing another number. "That's just one victim."

Not being able to do much of anything else, Dean showers and brushes his teeth, nearly choking on the water when he tries to gargle. Apparently, in psycho granny pie land, gargling is a form of communication. He's so gonna kick some elderly ass.

By the time he's finished, Sam's tossing his phone on the bed, one hand rising to rub tiredly across his jaw. "Well the mayor had some pie so that's three victims counting you," Sam says, pretending like he doesn't see Dean's indignant glare. "With the others, there's no way of knowing whether or not they ate any pie, but it's our best lead."

Everything about Dean's stance screams 'fan-friggin-tastic'.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Sam's looking at the notebooks, trying to determine whether or not Dean would prefer toting around a large spiral-bound or trying to write out everything on a small hand-sized. The pharmacy is crowded despite the early hour, apparently Dean isn't the only one sick.

He settles for a green pocket sized notebook, knowing that Dean would only get tired of carrying around anything bigger. He looks around the store, spotting Dean near the sunglasses rack examining the bruising around his nose in the little mirror provided for those who want to try on a pair of glasses. Figuring he might as well grab a pack of pens while he's at it, Sam begins to make his way to the checkout counter, weaving in between the early crowd, apologizing when he accidentally bumps into people.

The line moves fairly quickly, the cashier obviously running on a caffeine high, the teen bagging items at a speed that can only be brought on by an excess of sugar. As he's waiting in line, Sam notices a woman staring at him from near the Band-Aids. She smiles at him, dipping her head as she wiggles her fingers in a stereotypical flirty wave. Sam gives her a tight-lipped smile, thanking God his brother isn't paying attention. The last thing he needs is a pissed-off silent Dean trying to ease his frustration by making fun of his little brother.

Or he thought that was the last thing he needed.

He doesn't see it coming, and that makes sense because most times he never does. The guy comes out of nowhere, his fist landing hard against the side of Sam's head, causing the jaw joint to pop, an intense and sudden pain radiating through the bones.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" someone yells from above, and that's when Sam realizes he's a lot closer to the ground than usual, a bent knee and a hand on the counter being all that's keeping him from lying flat on the floor.

"Johnny stop!" the flirty woman begins to yell from her spot near the Band-Aids. Sam looks up in time to stop 'Johnny' from landing another blow, ducking out of the way and throwing off Jealous Johnny's balance.

Sam's about to give a punch of his own, his arm pulled back, muscles tightening to give the blow strength when his target's suddenly pulled out of the way.

Dean had turned around just in time to see some crazy guy storm across the store and swing a meaty hand against his brother's big head. After that, it was kind of like tunnel vision, his eyes trained on the crazy guy's back.

He knows there isn't any sound, but as he grabs hold of the guy's collar, pulling him away from Sam, Dean let's loose what would be an impressive litany of well-aimed insults. He doesn't stop as his own fist meets the guy's nose, a very satisfying crunch accompanying the pain in his knuckles before Sam's pulling him away.

"Dean, come on," Sam says, pushing him into the counter, his eyes pleading for Dean to let it go as the flirty woman kneels beside what appears to be her husband.

"Bastard broke my nose," the man says, sounding surprised and confused at the same time. As Dean points an accusing finger and moves his mouth, Sam's actually happy his brother is incapable of speech. He may not be an expert lip reader, but some words are just easy to make out, and Sam has no doubt the early morning crowd at Dutton's Pharmacy wouldn't appreciate being treated to a classic Winchester chew out, complete with Marine influence.

Sam slams a five dollar bill on the counter, not even certain it's enough to cover both the notebook and the pens, before he grabs his brother by the shoulder and steers him out of the store, away from the flirtatious wife and her jealous husband.

Sam slouches down in the passenger seat, his hand working his tender jaw back and forth, testing the limits of where "ow" turns into "holy fuck". He waits until Dean is pulling out of the parking lot before turning to look at his brother. Dean's eyes are darting between the road, the rearview mirror, and Sam, a look equal parts '_are you okay'_ and _'what the hell' _playing out on his face.

"I'm okay," Sam says, getting the first question out of the way. He tests his jaw a few more times, his fingers massaging the joint near his ear. "I honestly have no idea what happened." When he looks back to Dean, Sam can tell he's not buying it. Rolling his eyes in a silent prayer for patience and guidance, Sam decides to bite the bullet and admit his theory out loud.

"I think the guy was jealous, like funky apple pie jealous." When Dean mouths the word 'why', Sam inhales through his nose, letting it out slowly in a controlled stream before answering.

"Because his wife was, um…flirting…with me," he finishes, looking out the passenger window, not really wanting to hear, well _see_ his brother's reaction. It's either going to be mocking disbelief, or shameful encouragement if past experience has taught Sam anything.

Not to be ignored, Dean eases the car to the side of the road as soon as a considerable distance has been put between them and the pharmacy. He reaches across the seat, grabs the pocket sized notebook from Sam and tears into the pack of pens, trying not to act annoyed when two fall loose to the floor.

Sam waits patiently, resisting the urge to lean and stretch his neck in order to read what Dean's writing. A few moments later, Dean holds up the small notebook, the hastily written message clear in generic blue ink.

_Alright Casanova, now how do you suppose we track down Psycho Granny?_

In a very grown up display of maturity, Sam _does not_ roll his eyes as he answers. "We go back to the store and ask the cashier where we can find her," he tells Dean calmly, his jaw tingeing with each word.

Dean purses his lips and lets the notebook fall between them as he looks over his shoulder and pulls the car back onto the road.

Dean waits in the car as Sam goes in the store to try and convince the cashier to give a perfect stranger the address for a seemingly nice old lady. Some days those FBI badges _really_ come in handy. He's on his second cherry flavored cough drop, already convinced that these aren't any better than the lemon honey flavor, but they do work.

He's got his sunglasses on as he sits slumped behind the steering wheel, the back of his head resting against the seat, his fingers thrumming along to the sound of a song in his head. He can do quiet, he's done it plenty of times. Late nights doing research, sneaking in and out of questionable locales, on long car rides when Sammy's past out in the passenger seat. Yeah, he can do quiet—when he _wants_ to.

But this, this whole Darth Vader mind grip some old hag has on his voice box is way beyond craptacular. It sucks out loud—well, it would if he could freaking speak.

It's like he _wants _to talk, wants to tell Sam how pissed he is, how he doesn't appreciate having to write out everything he want to say. But the words won't come out. Quite a few times now, he's caught himself beginning to say something, only to stop when he realizes there's no air coming out to carry the sound, no vibrations in his voice box unless he's hacking up a lung. It's about as frustrating as trying to read when someone keeps sticking their fingers in your eyes. Like he said, craptacular.

He hears the distant door chime, alerting him that Sam's exited the store. Instead of looking up, trying to judge whether or not the big lug had been successful in getting the dirty on Granny, Dean waits, keeping his eyes closed until he feels the car dip with Sam's added weight, the squeak of the hinges a prelude to the slam of the door.

He simply rolls his head along the seat, turning to face his brother, one eyebrow Spocked in question.

Sam exhales loudly, much too loudly to be classified as a sigh before a crooked grin and a lone dimple make an appearance. "She lives about twenty minutes outside of town. Even has her own apple orchard," he says, and Dean can't help detecting a sense of pride in his brother's voice.

Dean nods his head in what he hopes is a very 'well done, Sammy' kind of way as he starts the engine, steering the car to head out of town.

TBC...

**Thanks so much for the for the feedback people. It _really_ helps with the motivation to keep writing when you know someone's actually reading your stories.  
**


	5. Now What?

Dean stares at the scarecrow, studying its plaid shirt and overalls, the weatherworn straw hat and happily sketched smile someone had drawn with a permanent marker. This scarecrow is definitely a lot less intimidating than the last he encountered. Definitely not as fugly, and probably not nearly as lethal. Hell, even the apple orchard looks more inviting than the last one he was in, albeit that's probably due to the fact that he's not tied up waiting for a Pagan god to gut him.

Nothing about the place screams psychosis, not in the way Dean had been hoping. The house had been spotless, it even smelled like apple pie, and Dean had half expected Martha Stewart to walk around the corner with a tray of cookies. Sam had thoroughly interrogated Jean Dobson, aka the Granny, while Dean sat by silently and patiently. It became abundantly clear really fast that Granny Jean wasn't responsible for poisoning her pies, especially after she fixed herself a large slice and chased it down with some milk.

By the time they left the Granny in her kitchen, both Sam and Dean were convinced that wasn't the first slice of pie she had consumed and her 'curse' was definitely being too motherly. She had immediately recognized Dean from the store, and without the understanding cashier to keep her at bay, Granny Jean had quickly stepped up, placing her hand to Dean's forehead, gauging his temperature, and after discovering that Dean had lost his voice she began to offer up several family remedies sure to "kick that cold in the pants".

It's still early in the morning, the car's parked down the road, and Dean's standing beside the scarecrow as Sam cuts into one of the apples he's just picked from the tree.

"You know, it's possible it's not the apples that's poisoning everybody," Sam says, tossing the sliced apple to the ground. "For all we know, it could be another ingredient."

Dean rolls his eyes, imagining sorting through Granny Jean's pantry looking for her voodoo tainted cinnamon. He looks over his shoulder, glancing towards the large barn at the edge of the orchard before giving Sam a look he hopes translates into 'what now'.

Whatever Sam is about to say is stopped when a muffled click sounds through the orchard, a distinct pop followed by a loud hiss. Dean turns, frowning in a patented _you gotta be kidding me_ glare as the sprinklers begin to spray, dousing both trees and Winchesters with a tepid spray.

They run towards the barn, not wanting to pass by the house should Granny Jean be looking out her window, wondering why two FBI agents who were supposed to have left an hour ago are studying her apple trees.

"Dean, there's nothing here, lets just go," Sam says, wiping stray droplets of water from his jacket. He looks up, expecting to see Dean already walking towards the direction of the car, but instead, is met with empty space, the side door to the barn slightly ajar.

Sam pushes the door open the rest of the way, a little surprised to see how brightly lit the interior is, the open bays in the hay loft providing natural lighting as the sunlight filters in.

"What are you doing here?" someone asks, causing both Sam and Dean to turn, each jumping a little more than either will admit. A boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen is sitting on what's left of an old tractor, the tires long gone, engine exposed. He's leaning back in the seat, his feet propped over the steering wheel as he balances a drawing pad in his lap.

"Sorry," Sam says, trying to swallow down the small bit of embarrassment along with his racing heart. "We were looking at your grandmother's orchard and kind of got caught in the sprinklers." Sam watches as the kid continues to study them with a distrusting eye.

The boy taps his pencil on the pad a few times, the noise sounding loud in the open barn. "Who are you guys?" he finally asks with a hint of bravado, trying not to sound unnerved by the two men standing in front of him.

"FBI," Sam lies, hand already reaching for the fake badge, moving purely out of muscle memory. He sees Dean do the same, his brother eyeing the teen with the same distrustful look on his face the boy had given them.

"FBI?" the boy says, sounding a little disbelieving and mocking at the same time. "What the hell you looking at apple trees for?" Sam shifts on his feet, trying not to smile at the look Dean gives him, that 'is he really talking to us like that' look.

"We were passing through. We were just talking to your grandmother—"

"She's not my grandmother," the kid says quickly, interrupting Sam's explanation. "She's a foster parent." The boy turns his attention back to the drawing pad, seemingly offended that Sam would assume the overly nice woman in the house was related to him.

Dean takes a step forward, his hand reaching for the book bag resting on the ground next to where the tractor's tire should be. "Hey, that's mine!" the boy yells, jumping off the tractor and reaching for the bag. Dean stops the kid, placing his hand on his chest, holding him back and giving him a stern glare.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" Sam asks, catching the bag as Dean tosses it to him. He ignores the boy's angry response, allowing a small smirk as Dean gets that look again. "Whoa," Sam says, pulling out a thick book that looks like it could be older than the three of them combined. "What's this?"

"It's mine you asshole, now give it back," the boy snaps, the only thing keeping him from taking the book is Dean's hand fisted in the boy's hoodie. Sam can tell Dean's actually having to hold himself back from smacking the kid upside the head.

"Listen, uh…" Sam begins in a calming tone, trying to soothe the teen's anger.

"Grant," the boy finally says with an annoyed huff of air.

"Listen Grant," Sam continues, holding up the thick book. "Are you into the occult?"

The boy rolls his eyes, and shakes his head. "It's for school," he explains, "My history teacher's making us right a paper on world religions. It's supposed to expand our appreciation for different cultures or something. I figured that was the least boring of the bunch."

Sam nods, opening the book and scanning the page. "Have you ever tried practicing any of the stuff in here, Grant?"

"I hate to break it to you, Mulder, but magic ain't real," Grant scoffs in a tone that makes it perfectly clear he thinks Sam's stupid for even asking. Now, Sam wants to smack the kid upside the head.

"Where'd you get this book," Sam says, choosing to ignore the teen's jibe.

"Library," Grant answers quickly, shrugging his shoulder out of Dean's grasp.

"They let you check this out?" Sam asks in disbelief. Grant looks down, biting his lower lip.

"Not exactly," he admits, before looking back up. "But I mean, I was gonna bring it back when I finished the project. I just didn't want to have to spend all day in the library."

"And you're positive you haven't tried doing any of the things listed in this book?" Sam asks again.

"Dude, I already told you, no."

Sam nods. "We're gonna hold on to this for a little while," he says, tracing his thumb along the spine of the book.

"What? No, I need that," Grant argues, reaching for the book only to have Sam hold it out of his reach.

"We'll give it back," Sam assures him, already backing towards the door.

"What the hell, man? What's the FBI want with a library book?" Grant asks angrily. "And why were you talking to Jean?"

"Why aren't you in school?" Sam asks in return, deflecting since he doesn't really have a decent answer to either question.

"What, are you gonna call the truancy officer on me?"

"Are you gonna call your foster mom on us?

Grant rolls his eyes again, and Sam feels the urge to smack him return. What the hell's up with the kid? "Whatever," Grant finally says, grabbing his book bag and climbing back on the tractor. "But you two are seriously delusional, especially if you think I don't know something's going on."

Sam just shakes his head as he walks through the door. That kid is too smart for his own good.

As they circle around the barn, Sam can see the slight shake to his brother's shoulders, a silent chuckle accompanying the crooked smirk on his face. "What?" Sam asks, stopping so Dean can have time to write it out. A few moments later, Dean holds up the notebook.

_He reminds me of you at that age._

Sam levels his brother with an indignant glare, borderline scrunchy-face. "Shut up," he says, only to have Dean's smile widen as he turns the page in the notebook, the words _'I didn't say anything__' _written in his sloppy script.

Scrunchy-face in full effect, Sam turns rolling his eyes. "You're an ass, Dean." He can imagine the sound of his brother's laugh as they head back towards the car. As much as Sam hates to admit it, he can kind of see where Dean would make the connection.

He remembers those few years where teenage angst was the only thing on the menu, where anything and everything pissed him off. He would question everything, usually rolling his eyes when he didn't get the answer he wanted. Dean would always tell him that he was too smart for his own damn good, then threaten to slap him upside the head if he didn't quit rolling those eyes. _Don't worry, Sammy. Big brother'll knock 'em back in place, stop 'em from rolling loose in your big ass skull._

Of course, Dean never did, at least not with any real heat.

As the car comes into view, the sound of jingling keys tinkling in the air as Dean fishes them from his pocket, Sam realizes they really have no idea what to do next. Sam's almost positive it's the pies that's causing everyone's behavior to shift. He's also fairly certain Granny Jean doesn't have a clue she's baking hazardous material and selling it for ten dollars a pie.

He's already considered calling in an anonymous tip to the CDC with the hopes of stopping anyone else from buying the potentially dangerous apple pies. But that would only be a temporary solution, especially after the pies are tested and nothing's found. Plus, that wouldn't answer the question of how to reverse what's already been done.

Sam settles in, slumping down until his knees touch the glove compartment, his eyes focused on the sky. The radio is on, _Whole Lotta Love_ blaring through the speakers, filling the absence of Dean's voice.

Sam opens Grant's book, frowning at what he sees. _They had this thing in a library, _he wonders to himself, reading through a few Latin verses, noticing someone's etched in the corners of the book, trying their best to translate.

Turning the page, Sam tries not to think about the fact that the answer might not be there, that Grant was telling the truth and that he and Dean are up the creek, and screw paddles, there's a freaking hole in the bottom of the boat.

As the car suddenly jerks to a stop, Sam's knees bumping harshly against the glove box as Dean pushes the door open and leans out, emptying his stomach, Sam begins to feel the slight beginnings of fear. Not quite panic, but something pretty damn close. _What if they can't fix this?_

Dean spits once for good measure, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth before sitting up in the seat, the car door still open, the engine still rumbling as it idles. He reaches into his pocket for the notebook and pen.

He knows it's juvenile, that it's not gonna work, but he can't help suggesting it anyway.

_Torch the trees?_

He watches as Sam reads the three words, as his 'little' brother gives him that John Winchester glare, the one their daddy used to give them when they would suggest something utterly ridiculous.

"No, Dean," Sam says, his voice flat and void of all intonation, "we are not burning down the little old lady's apple trees."

Pen to paper.

_Poisonous__ apple trees__, _Dean corrects, arching an eyebrow for effect. It's only been a few hours, but it feels as though it's been so much longer. He wants to talk, _needs_ to talk, even if it's just a joke, just to ask Sam what time it is. Doesn't matter, just anything's better than forced silence.

"You good?" Sam asks, knowing better than to ask to drive. Dean nods, and pulls the door closed. Sam keeps quiet, his eyes scanning the pages of the book as Dean drives to the motel. They don't know what they're going to do yet, they still have to think it all out, still have to figure out exactly what the hell is happening.

TBC…


	6. Luck or Not

Sometimes they get lucky, like _really_ lucky. The kind of luck people wish they had. Sometimes they don't even have to research, sometimes the big bad pulls the trigger itself, saving both Sam and Dean a whole mess of trouble. Other times, they aren't as lucky. Those times require a little more elbow grease, maybe a few stitches, an impressive bruise or two, and access to bragging rights, but in the end it all works out, luck wasn't a plenty, but it was present.

And sometimes the universe sits back and laughs, wheezing out '_Fuck you, Winchester_' in between gasping breaths while it slaps its knee, eyes watering with mirthful tears as it watches them flounder.

Sam taps his finger on the table and chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to remind himself that fratricide is frowned upon. He turns another page in the book, forcing his eyes to study the words, praying his ears will suddenly block out the noise coming from the bed across the room.

Dean's sitting with his back to the headboard, Sam's computer in his lap, his finger lazily tracing the track pad as he reads, hoping to find something that'll bring his voice back, that'll explain why it left in the first place. There's a trashcan next to the bed, within spitting distance. Sam knows it's within spitting distance because every so often Dean will clear his throat in a way that sets Sam's gag reflex into overdrive, before leaning and spitting what can only be described as 'eck' into the bin. Add that to the continuous smorgasbord of sounds Dean's managing to make, each of them assisted by an excess of phlegm and saliva, and Sam's about ready to throw the freaking book at Dean. Ten points if he hits him in the forehead, twenty if he gets the already bruised nose.

He knows his brother's sick, he knows he can't help the congestion and occasional coughing fit, and it wouldn't bother Sam so much if he knew that was the sole reason for the gut wrenching noises his brother's producing. Sam knows the truth behind it all is because his brother can't stand sitting still and being forced into silence.

As Dean settles quietly, his toes taping along to a beat only he can hear, Sam turns the page once more. The book isn't exactly harmless, but so far, nothing inside has jumped out attracting Sam's attention. If anything, he's starting to think the book is nothing more than a seventeenth century 'Magic for Dummies' written by a couple of witches with a flare for the dramatic.

Instructions for making charms, protection sigils, a few love enchantments, an odd mention of bending fortune—nothing too terrifying. In fact, Sam's seen the very same type of things listed in books sold to the public, color copy paper backs printed and sold to teenage girls looking for a little adventure.

The only thing different being that this book's the real deal, making it a lot more dangerous.

As Dean tests the distance from the bed to the bucket once more, Sam stands from the chair, leaving the book where it is as he grabs the room key.

"I'll be right back," he says when he sees Dean's questioning look. "I'm just going to the vending machine. Want anything?"

Dean shakes his head no, holding up a small bag of M&Ms and points to the half empty bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand before turning back to the computer screen as Sam closes the door behind him.

The air is cool despite the afternoon sun. As Sam smoothes the wrinkled dollar against the edge of the snack machine, he looks towards the motel's lobby. Linda is inside leaning against the counter, the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she writes in the ledger, a cigarette hanging loosely between her wrinkled lips, bobbing with each word she speaks.

Sam's willing to bet the dollar in his hand that if he were to ask Linda if she's ever had any of Granny Jean's apple pie the woman would say yes. Not once has he seen her without a cigarette and he and Dean have been there for almost three days already.

Easing the dollar into the little slot, smiling when the machine doesn't reject it, Sam pushes E7 and watches as the candy bar wobbles against the spinning metal riggings. When the coil stops spinning and the candy bar stops moving, dangling dangerously close to the edge but refusing to fall, Sam swears he can hear the universe inhale for another round of laughter.

He kicks the machine once, shaking it angrily before sighing heavily. "Awesome," he mutters only to stop and smile when he realizes it's been a while since he's heard anyone else say it.

Risking one more dollar, he once again punches in E7, grinning in triumph when two bars fall. He turns and heads back to the room, bracing himself for another session of snot filled studying.

Sam expects to find Dean exactly where he left him, but when he opens the door, all he finds is his computer sitting on the bed, screen saver bouncing around the edges of the screen.

He turns towards the bathroom as he hears the sound of the shower kick on, the sink not far behind. "What are you doing?" Sam asks as Dean walks out of the bathroom, closing the door despite the still running water.

Dean opens his mouth as though to speak before rolling his eyes and looking towards his jacket hanging over the back of the chair and the notebook hidden in the pocket.

Sam waits patiently for Dean to write out the message, sympathizing with Dean's obvious frustration.

_Can't breathe. Gonna steam the crap away,_ Sam reads when Dean tosses him the notebook before jumping back on the bed, crossing his ankles and picking up the computer.

"You find anything yet?" Sam asks, handing Dean the extra candy bar and earning a genuine smile in return. To his surprise, Dean shrugs, bringing up a hidden window on the computer and turning it to where Sam can see.

Sam reads through the text, trying to ignore the flashing advertisement for credit counseling displayed at the top of the page. "You're thinking witch," he says, and it's not really a question, because Sam had been thinking along the same lines. At first, he had thought Jean Dobson was responsible, but after spending nearly an hour talking to her, Sam's convinced the woman's only crime is caring too much.

Dean shrugs, stuffing the last bite of candy bar into his mouth before handing Sam the computer as he stands and starts making his way to the bathroom, steam billowing out as he opens the door. Sam reads over the different lore about witches, most of it going against what they already know to be true, before closing the laptop and tossing it on the bed.

"Alright," he says speaking loudly as he walks towards the bathroom door, hoping Dean can hear him over the sound of the running water, "If it is a witch, is Jean Dobson the original target, or was the idea just to infect as many people as possible?"

Dean opens the bathroom door again, brow furrowed as he thinks it over before shaking his head and turning. Sam leans in, watching as his brother starts writing on the mirror, his finger tracing through the condensation.

_If mass poisoning was plan, be easier to spike water supply_.

Sam nods, agreeing with that logic. "So, Granny Jean's the target then?"

Dean simply shrugs before the steam starts to take effect. Sam leaves Dean to clear his throat, his mind trying to think through all the possibilities.

If Granny Jean was the intended target, why the hell poison the trees? If it is a witch, why not just put a hex bag in the woman's kitchen and have her choke on her own pie? Can you put a hex on an orchard? How many hex bags would that take, or could a witch simply curse the trees, kind of like a rabbit's foot or necklace?

Falling back on the bed, Sam can't help thinking that things could have been worse. Of all the bad habits Dean has, the whole not talking thing isn't that bad. Dean does have a temper, a somewhat borderline unhealthy obsession with his car, an unintentional hero complex, then there's the whole guilt thing, his love of food...

So they're not all _bad, _simply a unique culmination of characteristics that make Dean _Dean_. Thinking back to the other victims, back to Mr. Banner and the mayor, to Linda and her cigarettes, Sam wonders what would happen if he were to have eaten the pie. What habit or characteristic would morph out of control?

It's hard to list your faults, to list things about yourself that could be viewed as anything but normal. According to Dean, Sam talks too much, but considering Dean's quotient on talking…well, that could simply be an exaggeration.

Sam knows he can be selfish at times, but then again he tries to consciously put others first, tries to see the good in people—or at least he used to. He doesn't drink too much, he eats an equal mixture of healthy and junk food. Dean teases him about being overly emotional, not as much as he used to, but yeah, maybe that would be it. Maybe one bite of apple pie and he'd break down in tears.

Shaking that ridiculous thought aside, Sam pulls the laptop towards him, opening it and trying to pick up where his brother left off. Witches, cursed objects, charm bracelets—someone really needs to enforce a set of standards when dealing with the Internet, make it to where not any whacko with wifi can post their theories.

As his phone begins to buzz, Sam puts the laptop to the side, frowning when he sees the deputy's number on the screen.

"Agent Page," he says by way of a greeting, his eyes darting to the bathroom door as the deputy begins to speak, telling him of a body found, reminding Sam that he and Dean had asked to be called should something like this happen.

"We'll be there as soon as we can," he tells the deputy, closing the phone and hoping like crazy that this'll give them a lead, that it'll be more than another unfortunate by-product of a town full of poisonous apple pies.

As he bangs on the bathroom door, gaining Dean's attention, Sam starts to think that Dean's torching the trees idea might not be such a bad option. If anything, it'll stop her from making more pies.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Dean wants to ask whether or not it's weird that he'd prefer to look at a fresh, recently gutted corpse than have to be in the same room as one that's been dead for a while. Forced silence and the knowledge that, yeah, it is kinda weird keeps that little question to himself.

The body's still in the body bag, the zipper pulled halfway down, exposing what Dean can only assume used to be the head and torso of a man. That's all he's got. Can't tell you if the guy used to be white, black, purple, or…honestly, if the coroner hadn't said it was a male, Dean wouldn't have been able to guess that much.

He glances at his brother, noticing that same look of disgust, the one that used to be reserved for potted meat and broccoli without cheese when they were younger. Now, it's being used to study a partially decomposed body that had spent way too long submerged in a creek. The skin looks melted, like boiled wax, and the smell…that's just nasty. Dean's regretting the whole sauna routine he pulled earlier, because now he's got one good nostril and that's more than enough to tickle his gag reflex.

"It's pure speculation right now, but it looks like COD is blunt force trauma to the temple," the coroner explains, her gloved hands pointing towards the side of the mushy head. "I'll know more after I finish the autopsy."

"Any idea who he is?" Sam asks, and Dean wants to give the guy a well-deserved high five for not blowing his cookies because he's pretty sure he just heard something 'squelch' when the coroner moved the bag.

"According to his wallet, he's Dr. Larry Tate. Sheriff's had a missing person's report out on him for a few weeks now." The coroner removes her gloves, tossing them in a bright orange bin before handing Sam a folder, perfectly identical to the one he received yesterday with Greedy David Jeffries' blood work.

"Thanks," Sam tells her, "Call us when you learn anything more?" he asks.

"Sure thing," she says, sighing heavily as she looks back to the body. "You know, it's weird. I've been doing this job for almost nine years. Most of my work revolves around car crashes and hunting accidents, but lately it's like people are going crazy. This is the fifth body in two weeks that wasn't natural causes or accidental death."

Sam looks down to the thin folder in his hands, and nods. "Yeah, the deputy said the same thing."

"Looks like the two of you might have been up close and personal with a little of that crazy," she smiles, gesturing towards Dean's swollen nose, and Sam's bruised jaw.

"You could say that," Sam laughs, taking a step to the door, and Dean wants to roll his eyes and scream 'quit flirting already', because the smell's not getting any less rank.

"See ya, Agents," the coroner tells them as they walk out, Dean holding his breath a few more steps until they're clear away from the double doors and the drifting odor.

"That was disgusting," Sam says absently, pressing the button for the elevator and feeling like he needs a shower. "So, are you thinking he's another victim of a pissed off apple pie fan?"

Dean, notebook already out in anticipation of the conversation, scribbles one word and holds the page up for Sam to read.

_Hulk?_

"No, I don't think it was Banner," Sam says, opening the folder and reading what little the coroner had on Dr. Larry Tate. "That body's been dead for a while, Banner didn't get gamma crazy until a few days ago."

The elevator opens, both men stepping inside and feeling a little disappointed when the smell follows. "You feeling any better?" Sam asks as the doors close and the elevator begins to move.

Dean shrugs, places one finger against his nose, and inhales congestedly. Truthfully, he is feeling a little better, still crappy, but better. The steady beat behind his eye has disappeared, the fluctuating temperature of his skin leveled out, finally deciding whether or not it wants to be hot or cold. The only thing still bugging him is the congestion and sore throat.

Admittedly, he still feels a little queasy, but that could be because of the bag of man-soup he just saw.

_Office or creek? _he asks, already knowing they'll have to check out both, try and determine whether or not Dr. Larry Tate is even related to their case. It's entirely possible the good doctor just happened to piss off the wrong person, that his death is nothing more than a perfectly un-supernatural death.

"I'll take the office, see if I can talk to some of his colleagues," Sam answers, stopping to cast a cautious glance towards his brother. "Think you'll be okay checking the dump site out on your own?"

Dean smiles that cocky smile, just the right amount of sarcasm in the mix as he raises the little notebook.

Hell yeah, he'll be okay.

TBC...

**I want to thank everyone for continuing to read this story, I really appreciate all the reviews, alerts, and favorites. For some reason, the Supernatural fans don't really review as much as readers for other fandoms I've written for, so I appreciate all I can get.**


	7. Breathe Slowly and Plan It Out

Suffering from a cold provides an excellent cover for having lost your voice from eating a supernaturally cursed pie. Dean only had to cough and point to his throat for Deputy Adams to nod in understanding, assuming Dean's cold and sore throat had robbed Dean of his voice.

"Well, this is where we found him," the deputy explains, pointing to the edge of the creek, small red flags marking off the site. "He was partially submerged. Couple of kids reported it."

Dean nods, trying not to imagine what those kids had thought. Uncapping the pen with his teeth, Dean writes out his first question.

_How long was he missing?_

"Just under three weeks," Deputy Adams answers, adjusting his hat so the brim blocks the setting sun. "And before you ask, coroner says he's probably been dead for about the same amount of time. Water's responsible for the condition of the body, also helped keep animals from getting to him."

Dean can't help thinking it'd probably have been better if Fido had taken a nibble of Dr. Tate, probably wouldn't have been as gross.

_Any ideas what happened?_

The deputy shakes his head, obviously hating to admit the truth. "Nope. Doc wasn't married, lived alone. His secretary reported him missing when he didn't show up for work. We don't even know what he was doing out here, let alone who he would have been meeting."

Dean looks around the crime scene, not seeing anything out of the ordinary outside of the yellow police tape and red markers. The water looks clean and clear, no hint that there had been a decomposing body lying in it just hours before. The creek isn't too deep, looks like it would go mid-thigh if Dean were to stand in the middle. Letting his eyes follow the creek's winding path, Dean's eyes widen as he recognizes a large shape in the distance.

Pen once again in hand, Dean hastily scribbles out his next question, feeling a twinge of excitement at the possibility of things coming together.

_Is that Jean Dobson's farm?_ He points towards the large barn in the distance, trying to call forth his internal geographical guru as he pictures the lay-out of the town, trying to remember how far the cut-off was that leads to the creek from the highway that leads to the orchard.

"Sure is," the deputy says, squinting to see the small shape of the distant barn. "We've already got a couple of men over there now, questioning Mrs. Dobson, trying to see if she knows anything."

Dean smiles and nods in approval, doing the socially polite thing, knowing full well that he and Sam will be re-interviewing Mrs. Granny themselves.

He doesn't know how, but he's fairly certain Dr. Tate's involved with the poisoning of the trees, and if nothing else, he's seeing a good salt 'n burn in his near future. A very messy, gooey salt 'n burn.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Sam's about ninety-three percent certain Dr. Tate's involved. He doesn't know how, but things are starting to fall into place too well to simply be a coincidence. Shelly, Dr. Tate's secretary, had been more than happy to give Sam access to all of the late doctor's files, even going so far as to give him the doctor's password for his computer. Sam suppressed the smile at his good fortune, at Shelly's obvious cluelessness when it comes to doctor-patient confidentiality, else he would never have gotten into the office, badge or not.

"I only worked with him for about a month, but he was a really great guy, an excellent psychiatrist" Shelly had told him in between soft tears, not too heavy, nothing more than would be deemed appropriate for having just learned your boss was murdered. "I'd like to say he didn't have any enemies, but he worked with some pretty rough clients, mostly juveniles, though." And again, Sam was sending silent prayers of thanks, because where as all patients are afforded a right to privacy, when it comes to juveniles, that's a whole other ball game.

She had left Sam alone after that, letting him know she'd be just down the hall if he needed anything. Sam hadn't needed much time. Dr. Tate was an organized man, alphabetizing his entire client list, and keeping detailed notes and calendar entries outlining each day's schedule.

A quick promise to Shelley to return the borrowed items as soon as the investigation is finished, Sam left the office building before someone who actually understood the workings of HIPAA asked why he was walking out with Dr. Larry Tate's laptop and personal planner.

Now, sitting outside the small café across the street, a fresh cup of coffee in his hands, Sam's keeping one eye on the medical building's entrance and another on the corner of the street, his ears straining for that familiar rumble of an old engine.

He opens the planner again, his eyes searching for that one entry, the one that had sparked his interest and first cemented his belief in Tate's involvement. A few weeks back, written on a page under the heading 'Tuesday', Sam rereads the messy doctor script.

_J. Dobson 1:30-GW for HM_

Albeit, the town isn't very big, but the odds of their dead doctor having connections to the Granny by more than just her pie is way more than a coincidence and is exactly the kind of thing Sam's been looking for, that piece of the puzzle he's wanted since first watching that video of the mayor on the internet.

As the sound of the Impala coming around the corner breaks his train of thought, Sam closes the planner and looks up in time to see his brother's smile, a sure sign that he's not the only one with a lead.

Sam barely has time to close the door and get settled in the passenger seat before Dean's shoving that freaking notebook in his face, his excitedly sloppy handwriting taking up half of the small page.

_Dead dude was found less than a mile from Granny's trees. I'm thinking pissed off ghost is spiking the apples. Snatch his body and burn the bastard!_

"How would a ghost curse an apple tree," Sam asks, "or better yet,_ why_ would he curse an apple tree?"

Dean shrugs, not liking the whole buzz kill his brother's creating.

Sam continues on, not letting the sharp stare Dean gives him deter him in any way. "Even if we burn his body, which is gonna be really gross by the way, it still doesn't answer how we break the curse and get you talking again."

Sam thinks back to all the cursed objects they've dealt with, the rabbit's foot being the most memorable, the Civil War penny being the most recent. Burning the object seems to be the best way to end the curse. But even if they were to torch each and every tree along with all the pies found throughout the town, it's still a long shot that mass arson will solve their problem.

All the victims had eaten the cursed objects, and based on the time line, there's no sign of the curse simply passing through the system. Part of Sam hopes that burning the doctor and the trees will reverse the effects, but the logical more realistic, jaded part of him keeps whispering that things are gonna go to crap. Again.

Catching sight of Dean's none-to-subtle eyebrow raise and one shouldered shrug clearly signifying a silent 'it might work', Sam forces himself to push aside any doubt, at least for the moment.

"There's no way we're gonna get to the body tonight. It's too risky with the sheriff's department doing their investigation, and the coroner working to finish the autopsy." His fingers tapping on the top of Dr. Tate's laptop, Sam concedes to spending the rest of the night trying to determine what reasons the doctor would have had for poisoning Jean Dobson's apple trees.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

His eyes are burning from staring at the screen too long, and he's pretty certain if he were able to gather enough energy to look in a mirror, he would probably see that he looks like a meth-head on the tail end of a bad binge. He's already showered, and readied for bed. His hair is almost dried, the ends resting against his shirt collar are still damp, making his exposed neck cold as he leans over the keyboard, tiredly reading through the doctor's notes on Grant Williams, aka Granny Jean's foster child who likes to spend school days hanging out in a dilapidated barn, and is also the GW in the mysterious calendar entry.

Dean's lying face down on the bed, an occasional congested snort/cough breaking through the medicine induced sleep. Sam had been a little surprised when he saw Dean chugging from the bottle, but Dean had quickly explained it's best to get it out of the way, to hurry and try and get better so that he'll be closer to the top of his game when they sneak into the morgue.

Scrolling down to the bottom of the page, Sam continues to read about Dr. Tate's concerns for Grant Williams, concerning everything from disrespect for authority to the teen's strong anti-social tendencies. Unfortunately, the detailed note keeping Sam was so looking forward to reading shifts in style once the doctor began writing in the patient's actual case file. Shorthand doesn't begin to describe the long list of letters displayed on the screen.

Most of it, had been pretty basic and easy to discern. HM stands for Hartfeld Memorial, something Dean had sorted out and happily divulged to his brother with a quick point to his bruised nose, reminding Sam of the angry psych patient and green tinged gowns.

Dr. Tate had used initials for almost everything, including diagnoses and suggested treatment and therapies, and no matter what they typed into Google, Sam and Dean weren't able to decipher the doctor's notes, not fully at least.

Realizing that the likelihood of him suddenly understanding the jumbled alphabet before him is incredibly low, Sam turns off the computer and tiredly rubs his eyes, savoring the pleasant burn as his eyelids finally close. Using nothing more than pure Winchester stubbornness, Sam pushes himself from the small table and manages to make it to the bed before collapsing, sighing with a small smile as his sore muscles begin to relax against the thin mattress. He can feel the springs pushing against his shoulders, and as he listens to his brother's quiet, even wheezing, Sam fully expects to get at least a good four hours sleep.

What he doesn't expect is to wake up only two hours later from what he feels to be an unnecessary slap to the face only to find Dean gesturing to the window like a deranged Vanna White.

"What the hell?" he wants to ask, only stopping when he sees the all too recognizable glow dancing through the window, that permanently memorized smell, and the distant call of sirens.

Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face, mouths what would have been a very loud 'hurry up', and grabs his discarded jeans from the floor, the belt still in place from the day before.

Sam doesn't know how close the fire is to their room, but any distance is too close, especially with their luck. Fully clothed in t-shirt and pajama pants, Sam slips his feet into his shoes, laces undone as he helps Dean gather what would be the hardest to replace should their room go up in flames. They work quickly but efficiently, giving the elusion that they've practiced just for this scenario as they grab the two laptops, library book, and bag of weapons.

Outside, they see that the lobby is in flames, slowly spreading to the nearby rooms. Other guests begin to flood the parking lot, their arms full of luggage, phones, and kids, everyone looking as though they've just dug their clothes out of a Salvation Army bin, not caring whether they match or not.

Only moments later, firefighters arrive, herding the small crowd to the other side of the street as they continue to check other rooms, insuring that everyone is out. Sam sets his bag on the ground, pulling on his jacket as more emergency vehicles arrive, the flashing lights and flames mixing to create a colorful disco ball effect against the damp asphalt.

He turns to Dean, noticing the pinched look on Dean's face, the way his eyes keep searching the crowd. Sam would be lying if he said he hadn't been inspecting his brother to be worried about the Impala, which is parked right in front of their room. But now, watching Dean look anywhere but towards the car, Sam realizes that it's the last thing on Dean's mind.

"Dean?" Sam asks, grabbing his brother's shoulder and attention amongst all the noise. Dean turns, and without the aid of his notebook still in the room, he mouths very slowly and exaggeratedly, 'Where's Linda?'

And suddenly, Sam's spinning around, searching each corner of the parking lot for the small woman and her teacup hell hound, mimicking his brother's earlier movements. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, nervously wiping at his mouth. He feels in his pocket, cursing when he realizes his FBI badge is still in the room. He's about to say to hell with it, to storm across the barrier the firefighters had put in place when Dean hits him on the arm gesturing towards a fire truck before taking off.

Sam sighs with relief when he sees Deputy Adams standing near the large truck. He's dressed in blue jeans, looking as though he hadn't planned on working tonight.

"Deputy!" Sam yells, getting the officer's attention. He sees the firefighter take a step forward to stop them before Deputy Adams pulls him back, waving for Dean and Sam to come on over.

Dean reaches him first, but stops and turns to Sam when he angrily realizes he can't explain.

"We can't find the motel's manager. She was in the lobby earlier tonight," Sam begins, once again turning to look over the many faces waiting across the street. "We think she's still inside."

The firefighter doesn't wait for any more information, he simply takes off, grabbing the attention of the two firemen trying to contain the crowd. Sam and Dean watch nervously as three men in full fire gear enter the burning lobby.

Sam isn't entirely certain how much time passes, but he knows it's way more than he's comfortable with. He's starting to wonder whether or not they should send in more firemen, someone to go check on the first three when the small crowd across the street suddenly bursts into applause.

All three men exit the burning building, Linda coughing heavily as the first two help hold her up, the third following behind with a soot covered Chihuahua. Paramedics quickly descend on the group, levering Linda up onto a gurney and placing a mask over her face.

As Sam approaches, he can see she's crying one hand pointing towards the motel and the flames, the other trying to stop the medic from doing his job, grabbing his arm and squeezing.

"Ms. Campbell," Deputy Adams says calmingly, and Sam stands aside, letting him take the lead, "Are you okay?" Linda switches her attention from the medic to the deputy, her sobs and coughing too intense to actually make out whatever it is she's saying.

"Ms. Campbell, please, calm down, try and breathe," the deputy encourages, not letting her hysterics disrupt him, "Do you have any idea what's happened? Can you tell me how the fire got started?"

She begins to mumble again, the coughing giving way to be dominated by the sobs, but all those around make out the word 'smoke' amongst the heaving breaths.

"I know, it's difficult to breathe. The questions can wait, just focus on taking deep breaths," the medic intervenes, assuming Linda's talking about the smoke in the air. When Linda shakes her head, the sobs increasing, Sam clears his throat as he prepares to speak up, his knowledge of the curse helping him know what it is she's talking about.

"Uh, I think she's talking about cigarette smoke," he says, both the medic and the deputy looking at him questioningly. "Were you smoking Linda?"

She nods, her fingers wrapped around the mask. "I was smoking and it…I fell asleep, it just…I need a smoke," she finally gets out, causing the people around her to look at her as though she's_ seriously_ suffering from oxygen deprivation.

"You want another cigarette?" the medic asks, speaking slowly and patiently for Linda to understand.

"I know," Linda says, dipping her head as she coughs yet again, fisting her hands as she fights for air. "I know it's crazy, but I…I can't explain."

Sam leaves the medic to tend to Linda, catching the sympathetic look Dean gives the manager before turning to leave. They walk back across the street, watching as the firefighters drench the motel, working to stop the fire from spreading to the rest of the building. They share a look, quietly agreeing on the same thing. Risky or not, they have to burn Larry Tate's body as soon as possible, before anyone else gets hurt.

TBC...

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**As always, reviews are welcomed and appreciated.**


	8. So Far, So Good

The parking lot is flooded. Dean navigates through the debris in the early morning light, bits of floating ash and burnt drywall rocking in the shallow water thanks to the subtle waves created by his boots as he stomps towards his car.

It had taken several hours before the firefighters were able to deem it safe to enter the rooms along the west end of the motel. Sam and Dean had to wait for a firefighter to escort them to their room, telling them to hurry and gather their things. Luckily, their clothes were dry, the large amount of water used to douse the flames hadn't made it to their room, however the familiar and undeniably pungent smell of smoke had, permeating their clothes and, if one were to ask Dean, their skin.

Now, nearly four hours after waking to an annoyingly full bladder and discovering that the motel was on fire, Dean's starting to feel the effects of adrenaline ebb away. He tosses the last of their things into the trunk, tiredly rubbing his face and unsuccessfully stifling a rather large, silent yawn.

"Think I should drive?" he hears Sam ask from the front of the car, and for a split second, Dean thinks it might be a good idea, were it not for the fact that he needs to be awake.

Shaking his head no, Dean opens the driver's door and lets his weight fall ungracefully into the seat, his hand blindly reaching out to stick the keys in the ignition, smiling when he gets it on the first try. With an impatient gesture towards Sam, asking the guy to hurry the hell up, Dean starts the car and slowly pulls out of the parking lot.

It's safe to say that his cold is definitely getting better, or so he thought it was last night. With half his mind focused on Sam's voice telling him how to get to the next motel, Dean starts to do an internal itinerary, mentally listing all the crap that's wrong with him and the reasons behind it.

The monumental headache is obviously due to an inability to obtain the adequate amount of sleep necessary after chugging a large portion of cold medicine. The adrenaline-fueled escape from a burning building and the chaos that had accompanied the fire probably hadn't helped any.

The intense coughing fit that nearly kicked his ass shortly after entering their motel room was obviously brought on by the overbearing presence of smoke.

The runny nose, well that's always a good sign after nearly a week of not being able to breathe out of either nostril. It mean's he's finally getting better. Clogged pipes are starting to drain. Right?

Right. Because now isn't the time to be sick. Now's the time to focus on the plan, and shut Crazytown down. And what better way to do it than with a little theft and corpse desecration? According to the FBI, it's their specialty.

Dean pulls into the new parking lot, easing the car next to a minivan he recognizes from the last motel. He gives Sam the credit card to go get them a new room as he waits in the car, his mind going over the plan to snatch Dr. Tate's body.

Watching Sam round the front of the car, the bottom of his pajama pants sticking awkwardly into his dress shoes, the laces dragging the ground with each step, Dean decides that getting Sam into some real pants is the first order of business.

-:-

"You do realize this is insane, right?" Sam asks for the third time in less than an hour. Dean feels it wouldn't be outside his familial duty as the older brother to smack Sam upside the head if he asks it again.

_Yes, I know._ Dean points to the computer screen, the message already typed from the first two times his brother had asked. _If you have any better ideas, I'm all ears_.

Just as he had the first two times, Sam shakes his head, his mouth pressed into a thin line, dimples forming as he squints his eyes. "It's risky, that's all I'm saying."

Again, Dean points to the screen.

The plan is simple. Risky, but simple. The morgue is located in the same building as the Sheriff's department, much to both Dean and Sam's chagrin. It became glaringly obvious several hours before that when a fire breaks out, the majority of the sheriff's department responds to lend a hand to the small fire department, much to both Dean and Sam's pleasure.

And like the good little boy scouts they are, or would have been, they've decided to kill two birds with one stone. Torch the apple orchard as a distraction to drastically empty the sheriff's station, giving them the needed legroom to sneak in and nab Dr. Tate.

Whether they want to admit it or not, they are both superstitious, which is exactly why neither one has pointed out that it sounds too easy.

"Alright," Sam says, resigned to the plan, "Lets do this."

Dean smiles, closing the laptop as he stands.

They both agree, that in a town this small, it'd be too easy to follow a trail, especially where arson is concerned. Instead of going to a station and purchasing copious amounts of gasoline, Dean simply takes the empty gas cans and begins to siphon the accelerant from a couple of the employees' cars parked round back of the diner on the edge of town. No security cameras, no receipts, no witnesses to tell the deputy "Why, now that you mention it, I think those two dashing FBI agents were in here earlier. Bought a whole mess of gasoline. More than enough to set Granny Jean's apples alight."

The rest of the supplies they already have. Tarp folded and tucked away neatly in the trunk beneath a bible and an extra chain for a chainsaw, which neither Sam nor Dean remember putting there. There's rope and duct tape, lighter fluid, and salt. Lots and lots of salt.

Dean grunts as he lifts the full gas cans, casting a careful glance towards the diner before quickly walking away before one of the waitresses decides to come out back for a smoke break.

Sam had dropped Dean off near the diner before going to the morgue with the hopes of borrowing a couple of jumpsuits they had seen the worker's wearing the day before. It had taken Dean nearly an hour to get all of the gas, and he had kind of hoped Sam would have been waiting at the rendezvous point when he finally rounded the corner, his biceps burning and fingers strained from gripping the heavy gas cans.

Instead, he has to wait. Putting the cans behind a dumpster in the alley out of view of the early morning crowd, Dean leans against the side of the building, his hands in his pockets as he tries to look casual, occasionally dipping his head in greeting as someone walks by.

Nearly twenty minutes later, Sam finally pulls the car alongside the curb, giving his brother an apologetic look as he leans over and unlocks the passenger door.

"I got them," Sam says, answering Dean's unspoken question about the jumpsuits. "They might be a little tight, but they'll work." Dean doesn't respond as he carefully sets the cans in the back of the car, using the wheel well and bench seats to hold them in place. Checking once more that the cans are closed, preventing any spillage on the way to the orchard, Dean climbs in the front seat.

They take the back road to Granny's, each giving silent thanks that she lives in the middle of nowhere. Sam stops the car when the barn comes into view. With one look towards Dean, a quick nod of consent, they both exit the car, each grabbing a gas can as they quietly walk to the barn.

Sam peeks his head inside, his flashlight off but ready as he looks for the outline of a teenaged boy. When no one calls out to him, he clicks the light on, shining it around the empty barn before turning and giving Dean a thumbs up, signifying that all's clear.

Dean, ever the professional, turns and immediately starts on the outside tree, trusting Sam to do the same on the other side. There's thirty-five trees, five rows of seven. There's not a great deal of gas in the cans, but it should be enough to get the fire going. That combined with wood being a natural accelerant as well as the fact that Granny Jean's farm is a good twenty minutes out of town, the trees should be toast by the time the firefighters finally get there.

Dean saturates the base of each tree before moving to the next, leaving a solid line of gas between each. He moves quickly, finishing the first two rows and moving to the third at the same time as Sam. Once the last tree is doused, Dean tosses a small pack of matches to Sam, and once again trusts his brother to know what to do.

It doesn't go as smoothly as he would have liked. He had planned on lighting the first tree of each row, causing that solid line of gasoline between each tree to spark and set the other trees on fire. It works for a few, but in the end, they end up having to light some of the middle trees themselves, the line of gasoline turning out to not be as solid as had originally thought.

They quickly gather the gas cans, each looking towards the house for any sign that they've been discovered before running back to the car, and quickly getting out of dodge. They once again take the back roads, not wanting to cross any rescue vehicles should Granny Jean or Grant discover the fire before they get back to town and have time to call it in anonymously. They want the trees to burn, not the woman's entire property.

As Dean pulls into town, he's forced to stop at a green light as the town's three fire engines head to the highway in the direction from which Sam and Dean just came. So far, so good, not that either will say it out loud. Don't want to jinx it or anything.

Neither can help the small smile of victory though when they see several police cruisers speed by, the sheriff's department's logo plastered across the doors. So far, _really_ good.

"You'll have to park in the alley between the buildings in order to avoid the street cameras," Sam says, his mind already going to the next stage of the plan. Dean eases the car into the wide alleyway, which looks as though it used to be a service road at one point in time.

Sam reaches over the back seat and hands Dean a neatly folded, dark blue jumpsuit. Dean climbs out of the car, popping the suit open and frowning. When he looks up to scowl at his brother, he sees that Sam is purposefully looking the other way, making it painfully obvious that he knew his brother would be angry which only serves to make Dean's frown deepen.

Two sharp slaps to the top of the car's roof forces Sam to turn around and meet Dean's very angry '_what the hell'_ glare.

"I told you they were small," Sam begins, pulling his outer shirt over his head and toeing off one shoe. "Look, mine isn't even going to fit right either," he quickly adds, gesturing to the garment lying in the front seat.

Dean stares for a few more seething seconds before angrily pulling off his coat, his lips moving as he silently damns the whole situation, stupid brothers, and teeny tiny lab assistants.

-:-

Sam tosses Dean a black baseball cap, similar to the ones the coroner had worn when she was at the bank collecting David Jeffries' body. Working quickly to finish before Dean has time to turn around and mock him, Sam uses his fingers to stuff his long hair into his own cap, before pulling the bill down low over his eyes. While the plan to cut out the building's power will help take care of the security cameras, it still won't hide them from anyone they happen to pass while inside. They're already going to be easy enough to remember with their too short jumpsuits and towering heights, the last thing they need is for someone to point out Sam's long hair, making it way too easy for Deputy Adams to recognize the description.

"Ready?" Sam asks as Dean gently closes the trunk, a pair of bolt cutters in his hands. Dean gives a curt nod and pushes past him. Sam follows close behind, self-consciously pulling at the legs of his jumpsuit, trying to make them longer and less constricting in the crotch area. The only thing saving his dignity is the fact that he sees Dean doing the exact same thing three feet ahead of him.

The building's main breaker box is on the east end of the building, clean on the other side from the alley-hidden Impala and the morgue. But there's no way they're getting away with stealing a body with working security cameras, not in a town this small with a deputy that could pick them out of a line up with his eyes closed.

They keep their heads down, the bolt cutters hidden between Dean's arm and side as they walk around the back of the building. They know where the cameras are, at least the ones on the outside of the building. Sam breathes a sigh of relief when the small cage comes into view. It's nothing more than a chain link fence with a metal out building, the breaker box bolted to the side of the building.

Sam acts as lookout, cautiously keeping his face away from the cameras as Dean cuts through the lock on the gate. Instead of opening the box and looking for the proper switch, Dean decides to save a little time and just cut through the thick wires snaking from the top of the box towards the building's roof.

They know it's worked when they hear the small hum of electricity die, shortly followed by a loud click as the building's emergency back-up lights click on. Not wasting any time, they jog towards the other side of the building, putting as much distance between them and the broken breaker box as they can. Dean simply tosses the bolt cutters into the alley, before back tracking and following Sam to the front of the building.

-:-

There's only a few people inside, mainly a heavy-set receptionist and a handful of deputies who can't be too far out of high school. They're all looking around, wondering why the lights are out. None of them notice Sam or Dean walking in, heading straight towards the stairs.

Quickly walking down the stairs towards the morgue, Dean suddenly wonders if a bloated, mushy body is going to be any heavier than a regular, slightly less decomposed body. He doesn't like the idea of any part of Dr. Tate being in his car, body bag or not. He had laid out the tarp in the back seat as an extra precaution, just in case. He doesn't want to think about the smell.

As they reach the bottom of the stairs, Sam holds out is hand, his ear pressed to the large door as he listens. They both hear some movement from the other side, a sure sign that the morgue technicians are just as confused as to the sudden loss of electricity as their colleagues upstairs.

Heads down, they push open the door, ears strained for any sign of the coroner's voice. Their little disguises won't work on her. They quickly make their way down the corridor, no one bothering to even look their way, let alone ask them who they are or why they're walking towards Autopsy.

Three people, that's how many Sam and Dean have to worry about, how many people stand between them, the body, and the stairwell leading to the side exit. Dean simply nudges Sam with his elbow, jerking his chin towards the room with the bodies, giving that '_you go that way, I'll go this way_' gesture before disappearing around the corner.

Sam does that tightlipped-dimpled grin of annoyance again, takes a calming breath, and enters the room. To his relief, he's the only breathing person there, the two metallic autopsy tables bare and glistening from the industrial strength cleaner that mixes with the faint whiff of decomposition still in the air.

Sam quickly reads over the clipboard hanging on the wall, the one used to keep track in which drawer each body is stored. Nabbing a pair of gloves from the desk, and placing a handful of extras in his pocket for later, just in case, he quickly pulls open drawer number six, holding his breath in preparation for the pungent odor he remembers all too well from last time.

To his great relief, the body had been placed in another bag, this one clear, thicker than the last. Somehow, Sam finds it worse, preferring the black bag over this one, if for nothing more than the fact that it hides what's inside. The bag lies against the rotting skin, the zipper running between what's left of the eyes.

Swallowing down the urge to gag, Sam adjusts the gloves on his hands and reluctantly slips his arm beneath the corpse's knees, preparing to lift it up, bag and all in a morbid bridal carry. He jumps, spinning around towards the open door when he hears a loud crash, followed by the unmistakable tinkling of broken glass. He stands frozen as he hears what he hopes are three pairs of footsteps running toward the source of the crash. He takes a step back, hand prepared to push the drawer back in and slam the door shut when he hears another pair of footsteps rounding the corner.

Dean peeks his head through the doorway, glancing once over his shoulder before looking back to Sam. He nods towards the body and then jerks his head towards the door, a clear sign for Sam to hurry the hell up because one knocked over storage cabinet is only going to occupy the three morgue attendants for so long.

Resuming the position, Sam lifts the body in his arms as Dean pushes the now empty slab back in place and secures the door latch before leading the way back towards the stairs, stopping to peek around each corner as he goes.

The door closing echoes throughout the empty stairwell, both Sam and Dean releasing heavy sighs of relief. Halfway there, so far so good.

At least until they hear a door opening on one of the upper floors, the sound seeming considerably louder than it has any right to be. Body still in his arms, Sam looks to Dean, noting the worried, wide-eyed look of fear his brother usually reserves for when things are about to be upgraded to FUBAR.

Neither moves, and later when asked, Sam will say he's fairly certain neither were breathing as they listened to the footfalls bouncing against the concrete enclosure. They're stuck. They can't go up, and they can't go back. The Universe is freaking rolling on the floor now, and Sam hopes it dies choking on its laughter.

But then it echoes again, that suddenly beautiful sound of a door opening and closing, leaving Sam, Dean, and their new friend in glorious silence and solitude.

"Lets get out of here," Sam says in one breath, already taking to the stairs, the side door one flight up his goal in mind. Dean doesn't even try to say anything, he simply follows along.

Larry Tate's safely tucked away in the back seat three minutes later, the edges of the tarp tucked safely around his sides as the car pulls onto the road.

TBC...

**Woohoo! Another chapter down...Reviews aren't required, but they're definitely appreciated. **


	9. Call 'em Like You See 'em

**I want to thank everyone again, not only those that are new to this story, but those who are continuing to stick with it. A special thanks to gr8read and PsychoPicasso for consistent reviewing-you're both awesome.**

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The sun is high in the sky by the time Dean steers the car off the road, his foot barely pressing the gas as he drives over the pitted earth, the Impala's shocks creaking as Sam and Dean bounce in the seat with each dip and bump.

The windows are rolled down, more to help ease the intense smell of gasoline still present from the gas cans than from the dead body wrapped in the back seat. As soon as they left the alley, Sam began to rethink his preference for the black body bag in favor of the thicker, clear bag that was obviously designed with retaining the smell of rotting flesh in mind.

Dean looks in the review mirror, mostly out of habit and a deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation. They had made certain no one was following them when they left town. Now, they only have to burn the body, and they're home free—hopefully with Dean's voice intact and a little less psycho in the South.

Once he figures they're far enough away from the road, Dean kills the engine and takes a deep breath. Damn, he hopes this works. Hearing the whine of the passenger door followed by the feel of the car shifting as Sam climbs out, Dean gets it into gear and follows suit. Time to get this show on the road.

"Help me carry him," Sam says, coming round the car and opening the back driver's side door. Dean wrinkles his bruised nose in disgust, but takes one end of the tarp-wrapped body bag, helping Sam maneuver it away from the car and onto the ground.

Next order of business, ditching the jumpsuits. Dean doesn't even wait until he's back at the car, he simply unzips the suit, strips down to his boxers and t-shirt, and tosses the dark blue monstrosity onto the tarp, fully intending to set it ablaze.

He turns to find Sam watching him, one eyebrow Spocked high in judgment, prompting Dean to offer a _'what?_' gesture. After all, they're in the middle of nowhere and it's not like Sam hasn't already seen all Dean has to offer any way.

A few short minutes later, the tarp is unfolded, the boys are dressed, and each is pulling on a pair of the stolen latex gloves Sam had so thoughtfully borrowed. The salt and lighter fluid are resting on the ground at their feet, the two jumpsuits resting against Dr. Tate's body bag.

Neither Sam nor Dean move, both wanting to hurry and get this over with without actually having to _do_ it. After several seconds of inaction, Dean elbows Sam, cutting his eyes towards the zipper.

"Dude, I had to carry him all the way to the car. The least you could do is open the freaking bag," Sam replies, adamantly not looking at the clear plastic or the near-sludge inside. Dean frowns, his lips pursing as he engages his brother in a stare down.

When it becomes obvious that Sam is still the more stubborn jackass of the two, Dean angrily looks away before letting his eyes fall to the body on the ground. Bending at his knees, Dean tentatively reaches out, gloved fingers pinching the zipper as he takes a deep breath and pushes his lips together as tight as they will go. Mentally counting to three, he bounces on the balls of his feet, ready to spring back as soon as the bag is open, before he pulls the zipper down as far as it will go.

"God, that's…god..." Sam turns away, the back of his hand held to his nose, his eyes watering from the overpowering smell. He feels the gag reflex kick in once, twice, before he's got it under control and he can turn back around.

Dean, still holding his breath, pops the lid of the salt canister off with his thumb and begins to liberally pour the entire contents over the body, even going so far as to grab a stick to hold the edges of the bag open as he pours salt into the sides.

He doesn't release his breath until the canister is completely empty and he steps back, leaving room for Sam to douse the remains with lighter fluid. His hand's already in his pocket reaching for the matchbook as Sam squeezes the last of the fluid, little bursts of air shooting though the last few squirts.

Pulling off one match and lighting the remainder of the book, Dean allows a small, cocky smirk as he drops it on the body, immediately backing far away as the accelerant catches light, a thick smoke permeating from the melting plastic and flesh.

Dean's on one side of the flames, Sam on the other. They stand in complete silence, simply watching the body burn, the sides of the tarp curling in with the heat, an occasional 'pop' and 'hiss' emanating from the makeshift pyre.

He's almost afraid to try, to open his mouth and attempt to speak. It isn't until Sam calls out, a quiet yet concerned "Dean?" that he decides to man up and go for it. He coughs first, feeling the edges of his sore throat vibrate with the action before he opens his mouth, and moves his lips, his tongue flicking against his teeth with practiced ease—all for silence.

Sam doesn't even have to ask, he can tell from the fall of his brother's shoulders, the way Dean dips his head and clenches his jaw that it didn't work. The curse is still in effect. Burning the trees and torching the body didn't work, and quite honestly, neither knows what to do next.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"We'll figure this out," Sam says reassuringly, his mind already racing in an attempt to figure out what's fueling the curse. He had a feeling burning the body wouldn't work, but hadn't thought ahead to make a Plan B. Truthfully, they had planned to skip town the moment the body was burned. Now, they're forced to stay and hope that the steps they had taken to cover their tracks are sufficient enough to give them a little more time so they can learn what's really going on.

Dean uses the toe of his boot to push off the remaining bits of dirt on the end of the shovel before setting it neatly in the trunk. The small mound were they had buried the doctor's charred remains sticks out like a sore thumb in the middle of the pasture, but given enough time, it'll hardly be noticeable.

Like his brother, Dean had every intention of hopping in the car and speeding away, putting Clarksville and Granny Jean far behind. But like almost every time before when things seemed too good to be true, a little too easy, they end up falling flat on their faces back at square one.

Well, square two. They're almost absolutely positive that Granny Jean and the late Dr. Tate are involved. Putting the last of their supplies back into the trunk, Sam and Dean climb into the car and head back towards town.

"We'll have to talk to Jean again," Sam points out, his face leaning towards the open window, allowing the wind to take away the smell of gasoline and smoke. "And we'll have to expect Deputy Adams to call us when they discover that Tate's body is missing."

Dean taps his thumb against the steering wheel, taking deep breaths to calm his anger. Inhale, hold it, release, inhale, hold it, release, inhale…

Why didn't it work? Why the hell is he still cursed? Past experience dictates he should be singing from the rooftops, Linda should be buying a lifetime supply of Nicorette, and Mr. Banner should be picking daisies and feeling the love.

"We missed something," he hears Sam mutter and Dean knows if he had his voice he'd have responded with a very sarcastic "_Gee, ya think?"_

Either Dean thinks a little too loud, or Sam knows his brother a little too well, because as soon as the thought crosses Dean's mind, Sam leans forward and turns on the radio, more static coming through the speakers than actual tunes. "Try to keep calm, okay? You blowing a gasket and getting pissed at every little thing I say or do isn't going to help us figure this out any faster."

And if that doesn't just make Dean angry…

"Please?" Sam adds, throwing in that kicked puppy look Dean hasn't seen in God knows how long. Shouldn't he have outgrown that gig by now?

Inhale, hold it, release.

Taking another deep breath, Dean nods once, giving his consent to keep his temper under control, at least until they learn who's responsible for cursing his pie.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

It probably wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that Sam feels a little guilty. He's sitting at Jean Dobson's kitchen table, an untouched cup of coffee in front of him as he listens to Granny Jean try her hardest to contain the random sob that breaks out as she recounts the morning's events. Even Dean, still cursed into silence looks as though he's feeling a little remorseful. It's kind of hard not to feel bad about burning her apple trees that they now know she had grown herself, having spent an entire spring planting each and every single sapling, even digging the holes one at a time.

They had seen the remains of the orchard when they drove up, the trees stripped of their leaves and fruit. The gas had done its job, leaving nothing more than a shriveled trunk and a few branches spaced every few feet in a field of black.

"Fire Chief said it was arson," Granny Jean explains, her hands shakily grasping the large mug in front of her. "I don't know what this world's coming to, burning down a bunch of trees. What was the point other than being just plain mean?"

Dean's actually a little happy that he can't talk, giving him an excuse for not having to answer really uncomfortable, yet ultimately rhetorical questions. Sam can only look away as Granny Jean swallows back another sob.

"Mrs. Dobson," Sam begins again, having already tried more than once to steer the woman's attention away from the trees, "As I mentioned earlier, we're here to talk about Dr. Larry Tate."

She seems to bristle at the mention of the doctor, her hands dropping to the table with a defiant thud as she looks Sam in the eyes. "I've already spoken with the police about that man. I'm sorry to hear he's dead, but it has nothing to do with me."

"I understand," Sam says quickly, his hand patting the air in a placating gesture, silently willing the woman to calm the fuck down. "Deputy Adams mentioned that you've already been questioned about Dr. Tate, however we have some different questions."

"Such as…?" she asks, looking suspiciously between Dean and Sam.

"The doctor had your name listed in his calendar. Now, we understand that your foster son was one of Dr. Tate's patients—"

"That's none of your concern, Agent," Granny Jean points out, everything overly caring about her suddenly fading away. "Grant is a good boy, and the state required him to go to those appointments. It's not because there's something wrong with him."

"Mrs. Dobson, we never said—"

"I swear, just because the man was found in your creek, everyone automatically thinks you had something to do with his death." Granny Jean stands from the table, nervously grabbing a hand towel and wiping the counter as she continues her tirade, more to herself than to Sam or Dean. "Grant didn't even need to see that doctor. And now the FBI is here, wanting to bring that child into a murder investigation. Well, I never…"

Dean grits his teeth and looks to Sam, a little relieved and slightly happy to see the same '_what the fuck, lady'_ look plastered on Little Brother's face that he's sure is plastered on his own.

"Mrs. Dobson," Sam says sternly, causing the woman to look up with wide eyes, "We're not trying to drag Grant into a murder investigation. We're simply following the leads, and so far Dr. Tate's body was found near your property, and he went missing shortly after having a meeting with you about your foster son. We're not accusing anyone of anything, we're just trying to get the facts straight."

Dean has to admit he's a little impressed with this whole 'take-charge' thing Sammy's got going on. It definitely comes in handy when crazy ladies get their granny panties all in a twist.

"Well, I assure you, Agents, me nor Grant had anything to do with the doctor's murder." Granny Jean tosses the dishtowel onto the counter and empties Sam's still full coffee cup into the sink before turning back to them, one hand resting on her hip impatiently. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

"No ma'am. I think that's it," Sam answers, already standing, knowing they're about two seconds from being thrown out. "If we need anything else, we'll be in touch."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," she says, pulling the front door open, making it perfectly clear she means them to leave. Sam and Dean don't waste any time, each quickly stepping over the threshold onto the seemingly mocking welcome mat. Granny Jean looks to Dean, momentarily adopting that overly caring persona again as she says, "I hope your cold gets better," before slamming the door shut.

Dean stares at the door, the curtains still swinging from the force of it closing. He looks back to Sam as he takes the front steps two at a time, his thumb pointing over his shoulder in Granny Jean's general direction as he mouths, '_She knows something._'

Sam simply pulls open the car door, his eyes looking towards the house as he watches Granny Jean peer out her front window. "Yeah, she does."

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Dean stares at the speckled Formica table top, his fingers slowly working to pull the straw wrapper apart, forming a small pile of torn bits of paper. The waitress has already refilled his drink twice thanks to his smoke irritated throat needing the soothing coolness.

The diner, which wasn't crowded when they first came in, is quickly starting to fill up as the afternoon comes around and school lets out. Teens walk through the door at regular intervals, paired up in twos and threes, their backpacks thrown over one shoulder like it's the only way to carry the thing.

"Dean," Sam says, kicking Dean's shin beneath the table, because for some reason, simply saying his name won't get Big Brother's attention. Just to prove how stupid that thought is, Big Brother kicks back before following Sam's line of sight.

Grant Williams walks in, his eyes focused on a lone bar stool at the counter, one hand reaching into his pocket for the few rumpled dollar bills, as the other grasps a thick text book. Sam and Dean watch in silence as Grant leans onto the counter, pushing the few bills towards the waitress and mumbles something they can't quite make out from across the diner. The waitress simply smiles and takes the money, and Dean can just make out the words "Coming right up" on her highly glossed lips.

Order placed, Grant drops his backpack to the floor, his elbows still resting on the counter, fingers tapping the cover of the text book as he takes in the rest of the crowd, a look of extreme boredom overpowering his boyish features. But when his eyes land on Sam and Dean, his posture stiffens slightly, his head tilting as he tries to remember exactly where he's seen them.

As recognition hits, Grant quickly glances around before grabbing his book and backpack and walks towards their booth.

"You're the FBI guys, right?" he asks them. Dean tries not to react to the slight scoffing he hears in the question.

"That's right," Sam tells him, the squint in his eyes telling Dean he's not the only one not feeling the boy's attitude. "We were actually just talking about you." This gets the boy's attention. He nervously looks back and forth, one hand fidgeting with the strap on his book bag.

"Why don't you sit down," Sam offers, scooting over so as to make more room for Grant in the booth. Grant, however, shakes his head, glancing back towards the counter.

"Nah, I'm not planning on staying long. Just wanted to see if you finished with my library book yet?"

Sam shares a brief look with Dean before turning his attention back to Grant. "No, not yet." He taps the booth seat, putting on a friendly face that somehow blends with a decent mix of authority all at the same time. "We have a few questions we'd like to ask you."

Grant takes a step back, slight wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. "About what?"

"Your psychiatrist, Dr. Larry Tate," Sam answers honestly, once again patting the booth.

"Yeah, I heard he was killed." Grant sets his textbook on the table as he eases into the booth. It's Dean's brow that does the little wrinkle thing this time as he hears the hint of sadness in Grant's voice.

"We know that your foster mother had a meeting with him shortly before he went missing," Sam says, opening the door for Grant to explain.

"Yeah, judge said I had to go to therapy. Jean gets monthly updates as my guardian or something like that." Grant rolls his eyes at the mention of therapy. He reaches over and grabs Sam's straw wrapper, working the paper into small pieces just like Dean had been doing moments earlier. "It was just a huge waste of everybody's time."

"Any idea what Dr. Tate wanted to say during that last meeting?" Sam tries to keep his tone calm and professional, not wanting Grant to feel as though he's being judged.

"I dunno," Grant says with a shrug. "Probably the same stuff he'd been saying for a month. He had it in his head that I was a sociopath or something like that. Wanted me to go to a loony bin or something, get specified help."

Dean's starting to think that wrinkle on his forehead is going to stick around, but he keeps his thoughts to himself, letting Sam continue playing the role of the diligent FBI agent.

"Any idea what your foster mother thought of that idea?" Sam asks, earning a shocked frown from Grant.

"Look, if you're thinking Jean's got anything to do with this, then _you're_ the ones that need to take a trip to the loony bin. The woman's like a hundred years old. There's no way she'd be able to take out the doc. I mean, she bakes pies for a hobby."

Dean smirks a little, having to agree with the kid's assessment, but past experience has taught him not to underestimate the elderly insane.

"Alright, I've got a double bacon cheeseburger, extra onions for the silent brooding type," the waitress interrupts, placing the first plate down in front of Dean, "and a single cheeseburger, no mayo for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Sorry, kid. I left your shake at the counter. Didn't know you'd be here."

"It's not a problem. I was just leaving anyway," Grant assures her, grabbing his textbook and backpack as he stands. "See ya," he says, dipping his head as he leaves.

The waitress lays down a stack of extra napkins, smiling as she asks, "Is there anything else I can get you fellas?"

"Nope, I think we're good," Sam tells her.

She smiles again, "Just let me know if you change your mind," she says, winking at Dean before turning and leaving to check on her next table.

Dean smiles, wishing like hell he could speak what's on his mind as she walks away.

"So, Dr. Tate thought Grant was a sociopath," Sam says as he picks up his burger. "You think it's possible Grant didn't like the idea of going to Hartfeld Memorial?"

Dean feels that wrinkle return as he reaches into his pocket for his pen.

_You really think Grant's a sociopath?_

Sam frowns as he reads his brother's message. "I think Dr. Tate thought he was," Sam says, wondering where his brother's mind is going. "You're thinking the doctor was wrong?"

Dean wipes his greasy fingers on his pant leg before taking his notebook back.

_I know that sociopaths aren't supposed to feel emotion. Kid looked like he had emotion._

"They might not be able to feel emotion, but they can pretend," Sam argues, forgetting all about his burger. "Dean, it's possible the kid could be faking."

_And it's possible the doctor was wrong._

"Dr. Tate went to medical school, he had a degree and twenty plus years experience dealing with this kind of stuff."

_People say we're sociopaths._

The message is written in ballpoint ink, but Dean might as well have screamed it out loud for all the effect it had. Sam sits back in his seat, his mouth slightly open as he tries to think of a counterargument. Finding none, he once again picks up his burger and concedes defeat.

"Fine, it's possible the doc might have been wrong about Grant."

Dean has the decency to keep all traces of cocky out of his smile.

"I guess we have to keep looking."

TBC...


	10. You Gotta Be Kidding Me

**I'm pretty sure this is record for me-two updates within 24 hours.**

* * *

Dean doesn't have a problem admitting that Sam is the smarter of the two. That doesn't necessarily mean that Dean is stupid, not by any means. It's just that Sam is freakishly smart, in the same way that he's also freakishly tall. Doesn't matter that Dean is nearly six foot one, he's still going to look short when he's standing next to an abnormally gargantuan giant. The same is true for their intelligence. People simply assume that Dean is dumb, simply because they're comparing him to Sam.

Doesn't mean it's true.

And that's why it's so much sweeter when Dean's the one to solve the puzzle. He has the map tucked neatly under his arm as he quickly walks through the many rows of books, his eyes looking from table to table, searching for Sam. It doesn't take long for him to spot the familiar hunched form bent over the table, long hair hiding his face as his arms wrap around whatever book he's reading, blocking out the rest of the world. The whole image makes Dean want to smile, it's too familiar to when Sam was younger, sitting on his knees in an oversized chair as he tried to keep Dean from seeing whatever it was he was reading or writing.

Tapping the map on the table twice, Dean manages to bring Sam out from the secret circle. He sits down in the chair across from Sam, waiting somewhat patiently for his brother to ask what he's found. When Sam finally asks, somewhat annoyed, "Did you find something?" Dean smiles a smile that can only be described as pure smug with a hint of cockiness as he unrolls the map on the table for Sam to see.

Being the freakishly smart genius that he is, it only takes Sam about four seconds to recognize that he's looking at a map of the county. Still somewhat confused as to why Dean's got that _I deserve the extra cookie_ look going on, Sam shrugs one shoulder and asks, "Want to tell me what I'm supposed to be looking at?"

Dean points to a blue line on the map that Sam instantly recognizes as the creek where Dr. Tate's body had been found. Seeing the recognition in Sam's eyes, Dean traces the blue line with his finger, only stopping when his fingernail lands on a small grey patch, the map's legend identifying it as farmland.

"That's Jean Dobson's farm," Sam says slowly, the wheels spinning in his head. "The creek leads to the farm." Dean sits back, smug smile in place as he writes in his little notebook.

_She said it was 'her' creek. Sprinkler system most likely uses creek water._

Sam nods as he remembers the sprinkler system catching them off guard their first trip into the orchard, all annoyance gone as the excitement of solving the puzzle takes over. "That would make sense. Tate's body starts to decay in the creek. Instead of haunting somebody like a normal pissed off spirit, his…juices latched onto the water and poisoned the apples."

Dean's smug smile slowly starts to wilt as Sam puts words to what he had already theorized, another realization creeping in.

"What?" Sam asks when he sees his brother's Adam's apple bob heavily, his face pale a little before taking on a green hue.

Dean swallows a few more times, forcing the nausea down as he writes out his realization.

_I ate apples watered with man juice_.

Sam tries not to smile at the look of complete disgust on Dean's face or at how dirty that one line sounds, but he can't help it as the corners of his mouth decide to rebel, dimples forming as Dean's scowl deepens.

Sam's trying to think of the best way to fulfill his duty as the younger sibling and mock his brother when his phone begins to vibrate, momentarily stopping any teasing about Dean and his man juiced apples.

"Agent Page," Sam whispers, sending an apologetic look to the young librarian that just so happens to walk by the moment Sam answers the phone. "Uh, yes sir," he says, his eyes darting to Dean, widening in that way that says something's changed. "No that's not a problem, we're actually in town already."

Dean leans forward, tilting his head as he tries to hear the tiny muffled voice on the other end of the line.

"We'll be there as soon as we can. Thank you, Sheriff." Sam hangs up the phone and sighs heavily. "That was the sheriff. Deputy Adams gave him our card. He asked if we could stop by the station."

Dean slumps back in his chair, imitating Sam's heavy sigh. Part of him feels like going to the station will be nothing but a waste of time. They both know the guy's probably going to ask for help solving the case of Dr. Tate's second disappearance. Right now, Sam and Dean need to focus all of their attention on figuring out how to reverse whatever's been done to the creek. Then again, how often is it you get to investigate a crime that you committed?

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"I swear I'm just about ready to shoot 'em all. Each and every one of the dumb fucks." Dean's starting to think that Sheriff Nunez could make Mr. T wet his pants. The man has to be in his fifties, a full head of hair, and eyes dark enough to make the seasoned hunters each take a second look before stepping into the crowded office.

"What sick son of a bitch steals a body? And not just any body, but one that's been dead for God knows how long. Guess they couldn't really get their jollies off unless they're dick deep in jelly."

Yep, Dean's liking this guy. He'd probably be liking him a little more if the Sheriff wasn't unknowingly insinuating that he and Sam are necrophiliacs who like an extra bit of kink in their cocktail.

"Sheriff, not to be rude…" Sam tentatively interrupts. They've already been in the room five minutes, and so far all they've learned is that the Sheriff has long run out of patience with the crazies overrunning his town.

"Sorry, Agents," the Sheriff apologizes, running his hands through his hair before resting his palm on the butt of his gun. "I'm a few years shy of retirement, you understand? And I moved to this little slice of Bumfuck to settle down, take it easy my last few years. Now, I spent twenty-two years working in Atlanta, and trust me when I say people can do some crazy things in the city, but this…this shit is _crazy_. I've had five suspicious deaths in the last few weeks alone, two major fires in twenty-four hours, and now someone's jacked with the breaker box and stolen a body. If I'd known I'd be signing up for this crap, I'd have staid in the city."

"Yeah, your receptionist mentioned that the main breaker had been tampered with," Sam says, gesturing to the emergency backup lights still running on a generator. Dean nods along, promising never to make fun of Sam's theater experience again, because damn if the kid isn't giving a convincing performance.

"Cut right through the main line," the Sheriff confirms, finally taking a calming breath and sitting down at his desk. "No idea who it was either."

Dean sits up at this little bit of news. In the least, he had been expecting a colorful recounting of the outside surveillance footage.

"Aren't there cameras outside?" Sam asks without a trace of guilt in his voice. _Way to go, Sammy._

The Sheriff shakes his head. "Ain't worth a damn thing. Squirrels chewed through the wires a couple of weeks ago, haven't had the money to replace 'em. All we got is someone who _thinks_ they may have seen two guys. Nothing more than that."

Dean feels that little bit of tension in his stomach ease. At least that's one thing going in their favor.

"So what is it exactly you'd like for us to do, Sheriff?" Sam asks very professionally. "We're happy to help, it's just that it's been our experience that most people don't like it when we step in."

"You've been working with Adams, right?" the Sheriff asks, earning a short nod from both Sam and Dean. "Well, I know y'all came here originally to look into the whole Mayor Dempsey fiasco, but Adams's says you've been helping out on other cases too. Figured a body theft would be right up your alley. And I hate to admit it, but with all the crap going on around here, we could use the help."

"Like I said, Sheriff, we're happy to help." Sam throws in an extra nice smile to go along with his sincere eyes. Sheriff Nunez seems to fall for it, so he stands and raps twice on the window overlooking the small bullpen.

"Adams! Get in here," he yells, resulting in a very eager looking Deputy Adams scrambling into the office moments later. "Get these agents everything you've got on the Tate case."

Deputy Adams smiles big, dipping his head and muttering a sincere "yes, sir" before closing the door behind him.

"He's a good kid," Sheriff Nunez tells them as soon as the door is shut, "A bit over eager at times, but he gets the job done, especially lately with all this weirdness going on."

Anything else the Sheriff wants to say is cut short as Deputy Adams comes back in, handing over two thin folders.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

When they were younger, there were a few things that they could always count on. One being that their dad would always come home. It might have been later than was intended, but he always showed. Another thing that never failed was when one got sick, you can bet your bottom dollar that the other Winchester wasn't far behind.

It's a given when you live in such close proximity with one another. Given that the closest thing they have to a permanent address is the Impala's VIN and license plate number, the rule still stands that when one gets sick, the other's close behind.

It's as Sam tries to swallow the little bits of crushed ice from the bottom of his cup that he realizes the pathogens his brother's been mindlessly spewing over three states have finally found a new home. His throat is sore, making it painful to swallow. He's guessing that little throb in his sinus cavity is only going to get worse.

Listening to Dean clear his throat from across the room, Sam inwardly groans, because he knows exactly what he has to look forward to. If the timeline his brother's set is any indication, he'll be vomiting by the end of the week.

Tossing the rest of his ice into the trash, Sam continues to look through their dad's journal, trying to find any reference to cleansing a creek of a curse. It's not like they can just burn a body of water.

He knew before opening the thing that he wouldn't find anything helpful. He had memorized almost everything in the journal nearly six years ago. If it wasn't there the first time, odds are pretty good it's not gonna be there now.

He's still reading though, if for no other reason than to pass the time. Dean's got the computer, they've already called a few friends and sent out a few emails with the hopes that someone somewhere will know how to fix their problem. His thumbnail is absently playing with one of the paper clips holding the pages together when he feels a small projectile hit him on the side of the neck.

He turns, finding Dean just where he left him, propped on the bed, laptop in his lap, innocent face in full effect before he points to Sam's feet. Sam blinks and looks down. A small ball of paper is resting on the floor. As he picks it up, he sees Dean's handwriting.

_Find anything?_

Sam simply balls the paper back up, tossing it none too kindly back towards his brother, before returning to the journal. "No." He doesn't even remember what the last thing he read had been, so he just starts at the top of the page.

Two pages later, the whole freaking notebook lands against his shoulder. He turns, angry and seriously considering the benefits of doping Dean up with Ritalin before he sees the somewhat pleased look on the idgit's face.

"What d'you find?" Sam asks, tossing the journal on top of the two police folders Deputy Adams had given them. Dean begins to mouth something, but Sam missed the first bit and really Dean's going too fast for him to catch anything anyway.

Sam grabs the laptop from his brother and turns it, finding an open email with a list of ingredients and instructions on performing a cleansing ritual. Sam smiles, definitely relieved. He recognizes the sender as being one of the names they had found in the back of their dad's journal.

Retrieving Dean's notebook from the floor, Sam begins to copy down everything in the email. "Come on, man. Lets go get this stuff and get this over with."

TBC...


	11. Read Between the Lines, Dumbass

**Sorry for the delay in posting. I busted my head open in a grand act of stupidity. On the plus side now, when I write about concussions in the future, I will be able to do so with first hand knowledge of how much they suck. **

* * *

Surprisingly, shopping for the supernatural isn't as difficult as one might believe. While there are some rituals and spells that require certain rare and unique items, the majority call for relatively common ingredients, only with a little twist.

Holy water is the easiest to come by. Any hunter worth their salt knows how to make holy water. One bottle of Dasani and a couple of minutes with a rosary and you're good. Mark that off your list.

Salt. Sam can't remember a time in his life when salt wasn't in his possession. Even at Stanford, he made sure to have a container of salt nearby—never had to use it, but it was there nonetheless.

Consecrated dirt. Not too difficult to find in the Bible Belt. It's quite possible there is actually a church on every street. Just have one brother keep lookout while the other shovels a handful of dirt into a jar, and you're good to go.

The local pharmacy had taken care of the rest. Candles, a hotplate, a wooden bowl that Sam's almost certain was meant to hold potpourri, and a few other ingredients that most would find in their spice rack.

In fact, there really is only one thing on the list that had the boys groaning. A piece of the person that cursed the creek. One nail biting game of rock, paper, scissors later finds Sam leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the table as he waits for Dean to get back.

The hot plate's set up, ready to be plugged in when they need it, the other ingredients laid out and waiting for that little bit of Dr. Tate. Sam's already read through the ritual more times than he can count, the words so familiar by now he can recite them in his sleep.

He has his father's journal in his lap, his finger idly tapping on an entry about werewolves. Dr. Tate's laptop is on the table, the two folders about his case lying next to it. Sam's good at doing research. He has no problem sitting still for hours on end as long as he has something to find. It's the waiting that bothers him. It's probably the one thing that he and his brother have most in common. Asking Dean to sit still and wait is like asking water to try to be a little less wet. It's not gonna happen. And while Sam is better disciplined at sitting and waiting, it doesn't mean he actually enjoys it.

Which is exactly why he's reading through the journal _again_. It'll take Dean at least an hour to drive to and from the dumpsite, then another hour or so to dig up the body, and then he has to turn right back around and bury it again. Glancing at his watch, Sam can see his brother's been gone for almost two hours already.

He had expected Dean to pull the whole 'I'm sick' card after loosing two straight games of rock, paper, scissors, but instead, Dean hadn't argued the loss. Sam doesn't know if it's because Dean knew that waiting around would suck the big one, or if it's because Sam had been the one to dig the grave the first time around.

Sam feels his eyes growing heavy with the boredom. He leans his head back, stretching his arms high as he yawns tiredly. He looks over towards the bed, the promise of a soft pillow proving too good to resist as he stands and falls face first onto the comforter, his eyes closing as he tells himself it's only for a few minutes.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Dean's trying really hard to think of an instance where he's been forced to dig someone up _after_ a salt and burn. So far, he's come up with nothing. This whole case is proving to be one big sequence of firsts for them.

Try as he might, Dean can't resist glancing towards the passenger seat and the small sandwich bag. It looks like someone burnt a piece of moldy ham and tried to save it in a Ziploc. He's just glad the ritual doesn't require him to have to eat or drink anything this time around. He'd learn freaking sign language before scarfing down charred moldy man meat.

He's covered in dirt and sweat. The skin on his palms irritated beyond belief, and for the life of him, he can't remember where he had put his work gloves. The muscles all along his shoulder blades and lower back are screaming in protest, just as he had expected they would.

The only reason he hadn't argued when he lost, hadn't insisted on playing three out of five was because he knew digging tires you out, no matter how much experience you have with it. Sam had dug the grave the first time around, leaving Dean to fill it back in. And while his little brother may think he's pulling a Super Secret Sammy, Dean knows his brother's starting to feel bad. He's mute, not dumb.

He just hopes this case is over and done with before Sam gets too sick, because Dean can testify that puking your guts out in the middle of a case is beyond awful.

As he parks the car in front of their motel room, he reaches over and grabs the bag of man meat, or what once was man meat, and stiffly climbs out of the car. He can honestly say he's a little surprised when he opens the door to their motel room.

Sam's lying on his back as close to the edge of the mattress as he can get without rolling off. One leg is bent, foot planted on the floor while the other stretches the length of the mattress. He's got one arm following the first leg, knuckles brushing the carpet. The other arm is tossed lazily across his eyes, blocking out the little light in the room, but Dean can tell from the deep, even breaths that Sam's asleep.

Quietly, Dean closes the door, setting the small bag of burnt goods between the two laptops on the table as he brings up the email with the instructions for the ritual once more. It's not one of those instant kind of things, it calls for a little preparation.

When he first read through the instructions, and the relief brought on by _finally_ having an answer began to ebb away, Dean had wanted to laugh. The concept is that they are to create a homemade type of amulet, for lack of a better word. Melted wax dusted with a few sanctified ingredients, symbols carved into the surface of the talisman, roughly the circumference of a hockey puck. The whole thing had conjured an image of a perverse easy-bake oven, arts and crafts Winchester style.

That image is making a quick comeback as Dean plugs in the hotplate and unwraps the scented candles. He looks over to the bed, fully expecting the sound of crinkling cellophane to wake the sleeping behemoth threatening to topple off the side of the mattress. But instead of waking him, the noise simply causes Sam to turn his head, the arm draped over his eyes flinging outward towards the middle of the mattress.

Dean smiles. He doesn't know from experience, but he's managed to gather from books, TV, and movies that most people sleep a certain way, that people label their kids as a particular 'type' of sleeper.

Dean doesn't know which type of sleeper Sam is, or had been when he was younger. It varied. There were nights when Sammy would toss and turn. What had started out as a nicely tucked in five year old in a prone positioned ended as a haphazardly tossed rag doll, limbs chaotically tangled in sheets, baby feet propped on Dean's forehead. Nevermind the phrase 'fish out of water', Sammy was a full on hyperventilating octopus caught in a fisherman's net.

Then there were the times that Sam would sleep like a rock, cuddling in close to Dean, using big brother's arm as a pillow, and then contentedly not moving until Dean was forced to reclaim his arm for fear his statuesque little brother would cut off all circulation and he'd loose the limb.

Some nights Sam would wake up with nightmares, others he'd sleep straight through the night, waking in a mood that most have to self-medicate to achieve. Dean remembers nights when neither could sleep, each lying awake in their adjacent beds, wondering, worrying, and waiting for John to come home, for a phone call, for something.

There were times when they would pretend to be asleep, forcing their breaths to be even and steadied until the real thing decided to sneak in and take them under.

Casting another quick glance at Sam, Dean lays the cookie cutter down on the hotplate, holding the first candle against the heated surface. The smell of lavender and vanilla immediately breaks through the remaining congestion. It's not a smell Dean would actively seek out, but he has to admit it's a little comforting, somewhat relaxing, and undeniably feminine.

He sees Sam start to stir, that frown line that Dean swears the kid was born with beginning to deepen as the smell of the hotplate and melting wax engulfs the small motel room.

Sam's tall frame, even positioned on the edge of the mattress takes up the majority of the queen-sized bed. Sam's growth spurts had come in stages, not gradual like Dean's had been. There were memories of Sam doing nothing more than eating and sleeping for two or three weeks, and when he finally woke up, he'd be taller, the baby fat stretched further along his suddenly lanky frame.

At nearly thirty years old, Dean still sees Sam as his little brother. He still looks for those things, those idiosyncrasies that are so uniquely _Sammy_ despite the obvious maturity his brother now possesses, both physically and emotionally.

At some point, 'Sammy' got lost, leaving behind just 'Sam'.

As the man in question sits up suddenly, his eyes wide as he searches the room for the source of the smell that aroused him from sleep, Dean tries to push away the emotions that decided to make an unwelcome but ultimately grand appearance.

-:-

Sam stares at the scene in front of him, his eyes blinking owlishly as he tries to get his bearings. He hadn't intended to sleep long, really hadn't intended to sleep at all.

"D'you get it?" he asks, not liking the roughness of his voice as he absently rubs the sleep from his eye while simultaneously looking to his watch. Huh? He had slept for almost two hours.

Dean simply points towards a small bag on the table and gives a short nod in the affirmative. He holds up the candle he's currently melting, the end deformed from the heat. His quirked eyebrow and wrinkled nose tells Sam exactly what his brother's thinking.

"They didn't have unscented. It was that or apple cinnamon, and considering poisoned apples are what got us into this mess…" he trails off, both knowing the point he's trying to make. Dean shrugs in agreement and continues melting the candle into the desired form.

Sam makes his way to the table, forcing the fatigue away as he considers rereading the journal for a third time. Deciding it wouldn't hurt to change things up a bit, he reaches for the two files on the Tate case, opening the first and reading over the coroner's carefully typed notes.

Like always, he looses himself in the work, and before he knows it, Dean's moved on to the second candle. He turns the page, finds that it's more medical jargon pertaining to the state of the body and gives up, reaching instead for the second folder.

He sees Dean shift in his seat, his mouth doing that weird pouty thing, a sure sign that Dean is aggravated and thinking about something. Sam smirks a little as he tries to imagine what Dean's reaction would be to hearing that his 'thinking' face looks 'pouty'.

"Did you have any trouble digging him up?" Sam asks, whether as a way to figure out what's bothering his brother or as a way to distract him, he doesn't know.

Dean purses his lips even more, adopting a nonchalant air and shakes his head. He's holding on to the wick of the candle, his eyes focused on the slowly melting wax and the once pleasing aroma that's quickly becoming pungent. He had added a little water to the plate, keeping the wax from burning and helping it melt.

"Feeling any better?" Sam's facing the folder, but his eyes are slanted towards Dean. Dean does that crooked smile thing, his eyes crinkling, eyebrows raising as he looks at Sam through thick lashes, a _what do you think_ look if Sam's ever seen one.

"The actual ritual will only take a minute or two at the most," he says, finding the silence suddenly thick and uncomfortable. "We get this done, we can be out of here by nightfall."

Dean suddenly leans forward and turns up the heat on the hotplate as he tosses what's left of the candle into the trash. Sam looks at the wax form encircled in the metal cookie cutter. It isn't exactly smooth, but it'll work.

Dean points to the bag resting between the two laptops, silently asking for Sam to pass it to him. Using only two fingers, Sam pinches a corner of the bag and hands it to his brother, perfectly content to leave this part to Dean.

The smell of the hotplate is strong, and Sam suddenly wonders if the light smoke coming from the wax is enough to set off the smoke detectors. The thought's abandoned as he watches Dean carefully open the bag and tilt it over the wax, slowly shaking it so that a few pieces of the burnt flesh slowly make their way from the bottom of the bag to the tilted opening, falling silently into the center of the soon to be charm.

Using the end of a coffee stirrer, Dean pushes the pieces into the wax, using the stirrer to try and manipulate it to the center, spreading the stubborn wax over the top until the pieces of Dr. Tate are completely covered.

Dean then leans forward again, this time switching off the hotplate. Using one of the motel's washcloths, he pushes down on the cookie cutter, trying to prevent anymore of the melted wax from seeping beneath the edges. Using the same coffee stirrer as before, he futilely tries to push what has seeped out back beneath the cutter, only to give up, figuring it'd be easier to use a knife and shape the wax into the proper shape after it's cooled.

While Dean works with the wax, Sam decides to prepare the rest of the ingredients. He reaches for the wooden bowl, quickly pulling off the sticker that says Home Accents with an image of the bowl full of dried fruits and flower petals. He sets it on the open folder, and begins to add the appropriate amount of ingredients they had collected earlier that day. At last, he adds the holy water, stirs the mixture, and frowns. Essentially, it's nothing more than a bowl of spiced mud, the dirt from consecrated ground being the main ingredient.

"Ready?" Sam asks. Dean tentatively touches the cookie cutter, testing to see whether or not it's still hot before grabbing it and pulling it from the hotplate. He has to pop it off due to the wax having dried to the surface, and then it takes another few minutes for him to work the wax out of the ring, using his knife to trim the edges. In the end, he smile's, holding up the finished product, a slightly dirty looking, light purple, lopsided disc.

Sam takes the disc, trying not to think about what's inside and begins to carve the necessary symbols, two on each side, before dropping the disc in the bowl of holy mud. Sam wipes away the bits of wax carvings that had clung to his jeans and looks up at his brother, noting that slightly disappointed frown.

He's starting to realize that Dean expects bright lights and flashes when something 'magical' is done. Anything less is simply a monumental anticlimactic letdown. Looking back at the purple disc slowly settling into the muddy goop, Sam kind of agrees, bright lights and flash would have been exciting.

But right now, they simply have to let the disc rest, let it saturate, or marinate as Dean calls it, in the mud before they head down to the creek and perform the ritual.

The motel is located a little more in the center of town, and as a result has a lot more guests than Linda's. Even so, Sam and Dean still pay attention when they hear the sound of cars pulling into the parking lot—it's a habit, maybe a sign of paranoia, but what can you do?

Dean, being the one facing the window, leans so he can look through the gap in the curtains. Sam doesn't think anything of it until Dean's usual squint disappears, his eyes widening as he quickly grabs anything and everything ritual related and starts shoving it in the motel's empty dresser drawers.

One quick glance out the window tells Sam he better help his brother clean up. Sam carefully places the marinating hockey puck and it's bowl into the drawer below the TV just as a light knock sounds at the door.

One more quick glance around, and Dean nods, signaling it's all clear.

"Deputy," Sam greets as he opens the door. "What can we do for you?"

"Sorry, Agents. I know it's rude to show up unannounced, but I figured I'd stop by and see if you had any theories on the Tate case." Deputy Adams takes off his hat, fingers dancing around the brim as he waits for an invitation.

Sam pulls the door open all the way and takes a step back, letting the man into the room, sharing a worried glance with Dean as he does so.

"Is that uh….what is that?" Adams asks, lifting his nose into the air as he tries to identify the intense smell.

Thinking quick on his feet, Sam quickly answers. "Lavender vanilla scents, lady at the pharmacy said it would help get rid of the smoke smell from the fire."

Deputy Adams seems to buy the lie, nodding along as he sits on the edge of one of the beds. "So, have you had anytime to look over the file?"

"We were actually just sitting down to do that," Sam lies with a nervous smile, gesturing to the open folder on the table.

Dean quietly excuses himself, trying not to draw attention as he makes his way to the bathroom. He's still covered in dirt and grime, and his steadily clearing nasal passages tell him he's not smelling too pretty, lavender vanilla or not.

Sam, noticing his brother's intentions, makes sure to try and capture the deputy's full attention. "What about you? Anything new on your end?"

"Interviewed a few of the morgue techs. One says he thinks he remembers seeing two men he didn't recognize. All he could tell us what that he _thinks_ they were white, and were both really tall." Adams laughs then, almost like he's remembering a private joke.

Sam's confusion at the laugh most be obvious, because Adams clears his throat and elaborates. "Sorry, it's just that. The witness, he's maybe five foot four on good day. Everyone's really tall to him."

Sam allows a small laugh then, more out of relief than humor. The sound of running water filters in through the bathroom door, and Deputy Adams finally notices that Dean isn't in the room.

"How's your partner doing? He still sick?" he asks, sounding generally concerned.

"He's actually feeling a little better," Sam assures him. "Throat's still bothering him though. But I was looking at the coroner's report," he says trying to pull the attention away from Dean. "She says cause of death was most likely caused by one of two blows to the head."

"Yeah, I figured the killer hit him a second time, just to make sure he got the job done," Adams says, pointing to the folder in Sam's hands.

Sam looks down, noticing for the first time the little handwritten notes etched out in pencil between the typed words, almost the exact words the deputy had just said. Looking closer, he notices that the loops on the letter 'g' don't quite close, making them look more like a deformed 's'.

-:-

As Dean walks out of the bathroom, his face, arms, and hands drastically cleaner, he catches Sam's eye and knows immediately that he's missed something. Sam simply turns back to the deputy and asks, "Did you write these notes?"

"Yeah," Deputy Adams says, sounding proud for some reason, like a good little student getting recognition for his hard work. "That was originally my copy of the file. I always write my notes directly on the page. Less paper to keep track of."

Dean watches as the corner of Sam's mouth twitches, attempting to smile.

"Do you always write your notes in the margins?" Sam asks, and now Dean frowns, wanting Sam to finish brainstorming and tell the rest of the class about his grand eureka moment.

"Well…yes," Adams answers, a little more tentatively than before, unsure if he's done something wrong. "Why?"

Sam sets the folder on the bed and stands, pulling open one of the dresser drawers and grabbing the stolen library book they had borrowed from their possible sociopath. He flips through the pages until he finds the one he's looking for. Ignoring both the Deputy's and Dean's questioning glances, Sam hands the book to Deputy Adams.

"Did you write in here as well?" Sam asks, and Dean can tell from his posture, from his tone of voice that Sam already knows the answer.

"Where did you get this?" Deputy Adams asks instead, looking nervous, yet admittedly confused.

"It was in the library," Sam says, his tone making it perfectly clear how ridiculous he finds that fact. "And the handwriting in those margins matches the handwriting from your notes."

Dean takes a few steps forward, leaning over to look at the handwriting in question. He studies the two samples, his head jerking back slightly in a '_hey, will you look at that'_ kind of way.

"What does…why is the FBI…what does this have to do with the Tate case?" the deputy finally manages to spit out. His brow is a mess of wrinkles, looking odd on his young face as he tries to sort through the onslaught of confusion.

Dean can kind of sympathize with the guy. After learning that the creek was cursed by Tate's death and subsequent swim, both Sam and Dean had agreed that there was no 'magic' at play, no one person, well no living person, responsible for what was happening. There had been a murder, a run of the mill, completely non-supernatural murder, and that was it.

But now Sam's pulling out the pilgrim's Spell Book for Dummies again, accusing the Deputy of…what?

"You translated a spell for manipulating fortune," Sam begins to explain in full on would-be-lawyer mode. "Why?"

"You can't be serious?" The deputy laughs in disbelief, tossing the book on the bed beside the file. "You're seriously giving me grief because I wrote in a book?"

"Why'd you pick this particular spell to translate, Deputy?" Sam continues, too worked up to worry about being nice.

"I was bored," Adams answers, obviously humoring Sam, "It said something about bending your fortune or some crap, I just figured why not?" His laugh is a little embarrassed now, obviously not liking the idea of the FBI knowing he was reading up on magic. But then he sees the serious look Sam gives Dean, the way the two men aren't finding the idea of spells and charms to better your fortune as ridiculous a thought as he is.

"You're not really thinking…guys, magic isn't real. Me 'bending my fortune'," he says, using finger quotes to show just how stupid he finds the idea, "is just as crazy as someone calling up one of those pay by the minute psychics. It's all just for fun, none of it's real."

Dean picks the abandoned book up, leaving Sam to filter through the Deputy's questions. The spell's pretty straightforward, nothing obviously dangerous about it—nothing other than the resulting aftermath.

"Alright, what's going on here?" Deputy Adams demands, standing and putting some distance between himself and the crazy Mulder and Scully wannabe's.

Dean looks to Sam, having no choice but to leave his brother to do all the talking.

"Deputy listen," Sam begins again, and this time he doesn't sound as threatening, a little more good cop than prosecutor. "We just need to know if you're the one that translated the passage. That's it." He even holds his hands out in an attempt to calm the deputy who seems to be suspecting that something isn't right more and more as each second passes by.

"Yes, I translated, now tell me what the hell does that have to do with…with _anything_!" Dean would laugh at how red the man's face is turning if it weren't for the way the deputy's hand keeps twitching as though he's thinking about reaching for his gun.

"You said you did this a few months ago, right?" Sam points to the book, to the page where the deputy's handwriting decorates the margins. When Deputy Adams nods that he did, Sam continues. "And all this stuff, all the crazy things that's been happening around your town, it started right about the same time right? Maybe a week or so after?"

The deputy's frown deepens, and he raises a hand, stopping Sam from asking anything else. "You're telling me, you think I caused all those people to loose their minds because I read some page in a book? Agent, this ain't Hogwarts, there's no such thin—"

"Before everything started to go crazy, before you ever even found this book, you were kind of in the background right?" Sam hedges, interrupting the deputy so he can continue his 'the truth is out there' speech. "The Sheriff probably didn't even notice you, you probably spent most of your time at your desk, pushing paper."

Dean watches the interaction, the way the deputy seems to shrink and pale with each point Sam makes, the way Sam sees it too, fueling him to continue.

"How long after you found this book, after you read the passage did things start to change? How long, Deputy before the Sheriff gave you your first real case?"

Deputy Adams licks his lips nervously, his eyes darting to the book and back to Sam a few times before he finally answers, all traces of anger and disbelief gone, replaced instead for a little fear and shock.

"Two days," he whispers, looking down to avoid Sam and Dean's eyes. "It uh…it was the Tate case. Doc's assistant came in to report him missing, and the Sheriff told me to file the report."

Dean blinks as it all falls into place, as the whole picture starts to sharpen. He wants to roll his eyes at the pure stupidity of the whole thing. Yes, the deputy didn't think the spell was real, he just thought it was all in fun, kind of like reading a horoscope. But then, most people get into trouble because they don't have any idea what they're dealing with. People willingly go to haunted houses just for fun, have séances, and worship the devil. If any of those people actually knew the truth…

"It's just a coincidence." Deputy Adams seems to have shaken it off, deciding once again that Sam and Dean need to be admitted, white walls and colored pills galore. "This is insane…_You're_ insane. There's no such thing as magic."

"Deputy, you read a spell, a spell that's supposed to bend your fortune. Next thing you know, your whole town is going crazy, giving you the opportunity to get out from behind the desk and shine, hell even the Sheriff says you're good at your job."

That seems to capture the deputy's attention, but only for a moment. "So if I caused this, and that's a big 'I'm-only-humoring-you' if, how do we stop it?"

"That's actually the easy part," Sam tells him, fully aware the deputy's only half sold. "Just read the counter spell out of the book."

"There's a counter spell?" the deputy asks, his voice flat, completely void of all inflation making it seem as though he's thinking '_of course there is'_.

"But I think we're going to wait on that," Sam says, and now Dean's thinking the deputy might have been right, well _half_ right, maybe Sam does need to be committed.

"And why's that?" the deputy asks, taking the words right out of Dean's mouth.

"Because," Sam says with a smile, "we're gonna need some of your good fortune."

TBC...

**We're getting to the home stretch. I'm thinking maybe one or two more chapters. I'm going to try for one. Reviews would make my day. (That is me subtley begging).**


	12. Use Your Words

**This is it, folks, the last chapter. Once again, I want to thank each and every one of you for sticking with this to the end, please keep in mind I'm writing this with a mild head injury (very mild), but I tried to answer all the questions and fix all the typos. I appreciate all of the reviews, alerts, and those that added this to their favorites. (Kudos to gr8read for her ever changing yet mostly right list of suspects.)**

* * *

Deputy Adams likes to think he's a reasonable man, that he's someone who uses logic and has a decent understanding of reality. He also likes to think that one day he'll win the lottery, that the Saints will have a Super Bowl repeat, and that Katrina McElroy will one day come to her senses and realize that they're truly meant to be.

In short, Deputy Adams likes to think a lot of things, and now, as he drives to the outskirts of town, an FBI agent riding shotgun with a bowl of gloop while another follows behind in a '67 Impala, he's starting to think that maybe thinking ain't his strong suit.

"You okay Deputy?" Sam asks, his hands cradling the bowl of sanctified mud in his lap.

Deputy Adams purses his lips, raises his eyebrows, and nods slowly. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam knows the question's rhetorical, that the man's simply using sarcasm as a coping mechanism, but he still can't help his response. He turns his head, dimples forming as he gives a shaky, empathetic laugh.

"I mean, just so I can get this straight," Adams says, his eyes occasionally glancing to the rearview mirror, making sure the black car is still behind them, "You're telling me that I read a magic spell that started a series of events that has somehow caused a handful of people in this town to be cursed by apple pie?"

Sam nods, his lips pressed tightly together. Why does their reality always sound so crazy when it's spoken out loud?

"And now," Adams continues, "You want to use that good fortune to help insure that you can reverse everything, so now we're on our way to do a, uh… a …"

"Cleansing ritual," Sam fills in.

"Yes, a _cleansing ritual_ at a local creek in hopes that we will then reverse the curse, after which, I will read another spell from your magic book undoing the original one that started this whole mess. Is that right?"

Sam nods, his voice even as he answers, "It's a pretty accurate summary."

"Or, the more logical, more _sane_ theory would be that the creek is actually the source of all the trouble, but instead of being cursed, some idiot dropped a barrel of toxic waste in it and now everyone's been poisoned and going insane." Deputy Adams keeps his eyes on the road, his knuckles turning white with the tight grip he has on the steering wheel.

"That sounds a little comic bookish to me," Sam says apologetically, trying not to laugh at the deputy's desire to cling to denial. As long as the guy doesn't call for back up, ordering a couple of seventy-two hour psychological evaluations, Sam's determined to go easy on the guy. He knows all too well how hard it is to find out the truth.

"Well, forgive me Agent, but your version sounds a little X-Files to me," Adams snaps in reply, his eyes glancing to the bowl in Sam's lap. "With a little Harry Potter thrown in. And just for the record, in my theory, the two of you sipped a little of the tainted water."

"Listen, as soon as this is over, I promise you this town will settle down, and you can focus on finding Dr. Tate's killer," Sam tells him, hoping that the elusion of a little less crazy will be enough to keep the deputy on their side.

"It's most likely whoever stole the body," the deputy says, comfortable getting back in his element.

Sam tries not to look guilty, tries to keep his posture relaxed. It wouldn't hurt for the deputy to think that. As soon as the curse is broken and the deputy's read the counter spell, he and Dean are gone, both perfectly content to never step foot in Georgia ever again.

But apparently he's a little rusty with the whole 'it wasn't me' look.

"You don't think it was the two guys do you?" Adams asks, letting the road and his passenger take turns holding his attention.

"I'm not really sure who killed Tate," Sam says, not really answering the question.

"Yeah, but why steal a body if not to cover up evidence? I mean, there's no other reason

to ta—"

Sam knows the deputy's sudden silence isn't a good thing. He's only proven right when Adams suddenly slams on his brakes, forcing Sam to brace himself with an arm on the dashboard, the bowl of gloop tilting, causing little drops to land on Sam's jeans. The Impala's horn is loud, and when Sam looks behind him, he sees Dean holding up both hands, wanting to know what's going on.

"You're the two guys," the deputy says, the way he whispers it only highlighting his shock. "You two, two really tall guys, you stole the body." As he continues to speak, he begins to gain volume.

Sam holds up a hand, once again trying to calm the man. "Adams, listen to me. I promise everything will make sense when this is all over."

"Bullshit." Obviously, Deputy Adams has reached his limit of understanding for the day. "You two are crazy, like bat shit and snow in July kinda crazy."

Sam has to reach forward and place his hand on the radio to keep the man from calling in for backup. "Deputy, please…"

"Listen, mister," Deputy Adams says, not even bothering with the title of Agent, "I don't know what you two are up to, I don't know if y'all really believe all this mess, but I'm done."

Sam takes a deep breath, wishing like crazy things would go their way at least once. But like always, things get complicated and they're forced to take drastic measures. In this case, Sam decides to follow in the steps of his big brother. Tucking his thumb, Sam pulls back and throws all his weight into the right hook, his fist hitting the deputy hard.

He has to hit him a second time in order to knock him out, but sure enough, the deputy slouches forward, jaw slack and eyes closed.

-:-

Dean is used to having to improvise, for their plans going wrong, forcing them to wing it. Although, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't thinking things were going pretty well all things considering.

And then the cruiser's taillights had lit up, forcing him to slam on his breaks. He had caught Sam's eye, but only for a moment. Next thing he knew, it looked like Sam was rearing back for a punch.

Now, as he climbs out of the driver's seat fully intending to see what the hell's going on, he's met with a frustrated looking Sam pulling his tall frame from the passenger seat of the deputy's cruiser.

Dean just looks at his brother, waiting for an answer. All Sam can do is spread his hands wide and shake his head. "He started to freak out," he finally manages to say when Dean looks in the window and sees the deputy slumped against the steering wheel.

Dean stares at him for a moment. But when he realizes it's exactly what he would have done, he just shrugs and gestures for Sam to come and help him.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Sam's sitting in the passenger seat, the cruiser hidden off road, and the deputy handcuffed and unconscious in the backseat of the Impala as Dean continues driving to the creek.

Sam looks in the backseat for the third time. "Any idea what we're going to do if this doesn't work?"

Dean doesn't bother answering, because he knows that 'no' isn't what Sam wants to hear. If this doesn't work, they'll be in a whole world of trouble. Not only will they still have to figure out how to reverse the curse, but they'll have to do so trying to evade the entire sheriff's department, something they've gone through a lot of trouble to avoid so far.

The radio's off. They don't want to do anything that may cause the deputy to wake up any sooner than necessary. As Dean parks the car next to the creek, he gives one last look at the bowl in his brother's hands. It's a little depressing really, to have everything depending on one little thing.

"What happened?"

Dean rolls his eyes and lets his head lean back against the seat as he hears the slurred words coming from the backseat. They had taken the deputy's gun and radio, but it still would have been nice if he had remained unconscious for just a little bit longer.

Dean turns to Sam, shares an annoyed look before getting out of the car, Sam right behind him. While Sam opens Dean's little notebook to the handwritten copy of the ritual, Dean opens the back door, grabbing the deputy's handcuffed arms and helping him, somewhat reluctantly on the deputy's part, out of the car. He grabs the spell/library book before shutting the door, and hands it to the deputy. The moment he has his voice back, the deputy's going to read the counter spell and this crap is going to stop.

"What are you going to do?" Deputy Adams asks, trying to sound authoritative and brave, but only managing to sound like a fourth grader that's finally decided to stand up to a bully.

Dean looks at the man, steering him by the shoulder to stand near Sam. He points to his mouth and shakes his head, reminding the deputy that he can't talk.

"What?" Deputy Adams asks, obviously not understanding.

"He can't talk," Sam tells him without looking up from the notebook, "The curse took away his voice." He bends down, gathering a little of the creek water into the bowl, sloshing it around to blend with the mud and spices.

"You're kidding me right?" Adams balks. "The guy's got the flu or something. There's no cursed apples or—"

Dean, having had enough, snaps his fingers and points at the deputy, one eyebrow arched high as he makes two slashing motions across his throat, signaling for the deputy to shut the hell up.

This time, the deputy understands.

"Alright," Sam says, standing as he continues to tilt the bowl back and forth, "You ready?"

Dean nods, keeping his hold on the deputy's shoulder as Sam begins to recite the first few lines of the copied verse.

"Hold it right there young man."

Dean swears, as soon as this is over, he's never coming back to Georgia.

Apparently, since the deputy is no longer on their side, their fortune is still screwed, and not in the good way. Jean Dobson is standing not twenty feet away, a shotgun propped on her shoulder, aimed right at Sam. Sam looks up from the notebook, frowning as he takes in the shotgun and the old woman.

"Mrs. Dobson," Sam begins, spreading his arms to show he isn't armed and means her no harm. "Why don't you put that gun down? We're not wanting any trouble."

"Then you won't mind explaining to me what you're doing on my land speaking all that gibberish, and with a lawman in handcuffs." She readjusts the shotgun, but her aim never wavers.

"Mrs. Dobson, I need you to go call for help. Can you do that?" Adams asks, drawing more attention to himself. Apparently, that wasn't a very good idea.

Jean's eyes slowly move from Sam to the deputy, and then predictably, fall to the book in his hands.

"What are you doing with that?" she asks, the barrel of the gun swinging from Sam's chest to the book.

Deputy Adams looks down confusedly. "The book?" he asks, sounding as though he's wishing he'd never laid eyes on it.

"That's Grant's book," Jean says, eyeing the man suspiciously. "What are you doing with it?"

"They had it," Adams says, trying his best to push the book into Dean's hands, "I had no idea—"

She shakes her head, swinging the gun back round to Sam, cutting the deputy off. "I already told you, Agents. That young boy had nothing to do with that man's death."

"We don't think he does," Sam quickly says, and Dean can't tell if Sam really believes that or not.

"Then why are you at the crime scene with Grant's school book?"

Dean can feel his gun resting in the back of his waistband. He doesn't want to pull it out only to have the Granny pull her trigger before he can even take aim. He definitely doesn't want to have to shoot a little old lady, crazy or not.

"Jean?"

Oh, this just keeps getting better and better.

"Grant sweetie, why don't you just go back to the house okay?" Jean says in a sickenly sweet voice, her head turning to look at the teen. Dean takes the opportunity to step away from the deputy and pull out his own gun, aiming it right at the woman.

He really wishes he were the type of guy to carry a camera. The look on the Granny's face when she turns back around is priceless, like frame it and hang it on your wall priceless.

Too bad he can't do more than point a gun at her. But that's where little brother's come in.

"I think you need to put the gun down now, Mrs. Dobson." Sam sounds a little more certain now that Dean's got his back. "This is all one big misunderstanding. No one thinks Grant murdered the doctor."

"Wait, what?" Grant asks, suddenly finding his voice. He had looked confused when he first walked into the clearing, finding his foster mother holding up what he believes to be two FBI agents and a deputy at gunpoint. But now that his name and the word 'murder' have been said in the same sentence, he's beyond confused. 'Baffled' might be a good word to describe how he feels.

"Nothing, sweetie. I'm taking care of it," Jean tells him, this time keeping her eyes on the three men before her. "They're not going to take you away. I won't let them."

As was mentioned before, Dean has no problem saying Sam's the smart one. Right now he's feeling a little bit of pride in his brother's freakishly quick brain.

"Is that what happened last time, Jean," Sam asks, using the Granny's first name. "Did you stop Dr. Tate from taking Grant away?" Bowl and notebook still in hand, Sam takes a step closer to Jean.

Okay, a freakishly smart guy who can't seem to comprehend it's not a good idea to bait someone who's pointing a gun at you. Apparently, Sam's never been on the wrong side of a pissed off woman.

Dean coughs loudly, causing the deputy to tense and Sam to turn, giving him a 'trust me' look. Oh, Dean hates that look.

"What's he doing?" Deputy Adams whispers, taking a step closer to Dean. Guess he's back on their side again. Dean cuts his eyes, raising one eyebrow, trying to determine whether or not the man actually thinks he's gonna answer.

Adams seems to read the glare correctly, either remembering that Dean can't answer, or realizing that now isn't the best time to ask. "Oh, right."

Dean rolls his eyes and focuses back on the scene before him, on the woman aiming a shotgun at his brother.

-:-

Sam hadn't thought much of Grant Williams since the diner. While he hadn't forgotten the conversation he and Dean had concerning whether or not the teen is truly a sociopath, he hadn't actively considered it again.

Looking at the terror and confusion on the kid's face, the way he looks like he's two seconds or one gun shot away from either crying or throwing up, Sam's starting to think Dean might have been right, that maybe the doc was wrong and Grant Williams is simply misunderstood. Sam can relate to that.

But then again, so can Dean. Dean's first few years of grade school, he had been forced into therapy, different people giving their professional opinion on how to help him, sending home letters for John to read, setting up meeting with puppets, reminding Dean to use his words.

At the time, Sam had no idea why Dean was so adamant in giving the kid the benefit of the doubt. Seeing the way Grant's hands shake, the way he keeps looking at his foster mother like she's just been possessed by the leader of the pod people, Sam gets it. Dean was identifying with him. Maybe not on a deep level, but maybe on the surface. Two kids who both hated the situations they were forced into.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jean insists, lifting the gun so that it now points at Sam's face instead of his chest.

Sam stops walking forward, and forces his mind on the here and now. "Then why don't you explain it?"

Jean doesn't seem to like that idea either. Sam can't see what's going on behind him, but he knows that Dean is there. He knows that whatever happens next, Dean will back him up. He'll probably rip him a new one later, but he'll still back him up now.

As he sees Jean's finger slowly inch towards the trigger, Sam decides there's no better time to act. Letting both the bowl and the notebook fall to the ground, Sam lunges forward, grabbing the barrel and pointing it away as he slams all of his weight into the old woman.

-:-

Once upon a time, Grant was a happy kid. So what if he didn't know who his dad was? It's not like his mom did either. He had been the picture of health, a bright and happy six year old, two missing front teeth, and a loving mom who, as far as he knew, was only guilty of wearing too much makeup.

But wouldn't you know it. One bad meth deal later, and his loving, blue eye-shadow wearing momma is getting hauled off to jail, and he's spending the night in a room with three other kids, two of which don't even speak English.

This morning, if anyone were to have asked, he would have said that was the scariest time of his life. But now, his tennis shoes slowly sinking into the clay at the edge of the creek, he's starting to redefine 'scary'.

He had been in the barn when he saw Jean walk out the back door, shotgun in hand. At first, he had thought she was going after coyotes. It's not a stretch, after all, they're the whole reason she has the gun to begin with.

So, being the decent kind of guy that he is, he had hopped on his bike and followed her pickup towards the creek. It's what anyone would do. Seriously? Who's gonna leave a woman who's seen the better part of a century to take on a pack of mangy coyotes all on her lonesome?

But it isn't coyotes, and Grant's quickly learning that Jean isn't as innocent as he had originally thought.

"Then why don't you explain it?" the really tall FBI guy says, and Grant's trying to remember his name. Maybe his teachers are right, maybe he doesn't pay attention, because he could have sworn just a second ago everyone was having a nice, perfectly natural standoff. Yet here he is, watching some freakishly tall FBI guy wrestle an old woman to the ground.

Next thing Grant knows, the other FBI guy, the one with the busted up nose is shoving a notebook in his face, pointing to a bunch of weird looking words that look a lot like Latin. The guy points to Grant then back to the book, and suddenly Grant's trying to remember if he's ever heard the guy speak.

"Read the friggin' spell, kid" the deputy's yelling as Silent Guy takes off to help his partner wrestle a seventy something year old woman. Seriously, he should have just staid in bed today.

Forcing his eyes to look away from the absurd scene before him, Grant begins the task of sounding out the words. The only foreign language he's ever studied is Spanish, and according to his teachers, his accent sucks. But he gives it his best shot anyway.

It's hard trying to concentrate with the loud commotion going on around him. The deputy quickly grabs the notebook from Grant's hands, and begins reading, and Grant can't help thinking that the deputy's accent sounds a lot better than his.

"Toss the disc in the creek," one of the guy's yells, and Grant turns to find him holding Jean's arms behind her back, the shotgun lying on the ground as the silent guy continues to point a gun at her.

"What disc?" Grant asks as the deputy finishes reading whatever was in the notebook.

Seeming to think that his partner has everything under control, the silent guy lowers the gun and starts to walk towards the bowl on the ground, a bunch of brown sludge spilled over the edge.

-:-

Dean learned a long time ago not to underestimate the elderly insane. He's said it once, and undoubtedly he should have said it again, just as a reminder, because as soon as he turns his back, all his attention on grabbing the disc and tossing it into the creek, he hears his brother gasp. It's not one of those 'oh my goodness' gasps, it's one of those 'Holy Hell, I just took a knee to the jewels' kind of gasps.

He quickly turns, finding Sam dropping to the ground, his hands going to his crotch, confirming it was the second type of gasp. Dean doesn't have time to feel sympathy for his brother, because the next thing he's aware of is the stock of Granny's gun connecting with his jaw.

"Sonuvabitch!" he screams, the pain radiating through his skull temporarily blocking out the sound of his voice. Dean's a quick learner, and rarely does he make the same mistake twice. Before Granny can swing the gun around and get her finger on the trigger, Dean grabs her arm, stopping her in her tracks as he rears back and punches her right in the face.

Unlike with Sam and the deputy, Granny Jean hits the ground and is out cold with only one swing. Dean turns, and for the second time in less than five minutes, wishes like crazy he was the kind of guy to carry a camera.

The deputy's standing by the creek, his eyes wide and mouth open, the picture image of shock. Grant's standing right beside him, his hand covered in sanctified spiced mud, the bowl at his feet. While his jaw isn't threatening to hit the ground like the deputy's, there's no mistaking the look of complete surprise on the kid's face.

And right behind them, in all its magical glory, is the creek, a faint glow slowly fading as the lavender-vanilla disc does its thing.

"Sam, you good?" Dean asks, his throat feeling thick and itchy from lack of use.

"Been better," Sam moans, slowly climbing to his feet, the Granny's shotgun in his hand. "Guess it worked, huh?" he says with a smile.

Dean just laughs, the sound deep and joyous and _real._

"Adams, you good?" Dean asks, reaching into his pocket for the keys to the handcuffs. It's pretty safe to say the deputy isn't about to call in the men in white coats to take them away, not after seeing what he saw.

When a slow nod is the only answer the deputy gives, Dean turns his attention to Grant. "Guess we owe you a thank you," he says, and boy doesn't it feel good to say it out loud.

"I was thinking something more along the lines of an explanation," Grant says, slinging mud from his fingers as he continues to look at the prone form of his foster mother.

"Well the short story is Barney Fife here read a spell from your library book, which made your Granny kill your therapists, whose body poisoned the creek water, which tainted the apples, and cursed anyone who ate 'em." Dean smiles the entire time, and he knows he must look crazy, but really, who cares. It's over, it's done. So long Georgia.

Almost.

"That just happened," Deputy Adams mutters as Sam hands him the book from the library already opened to the page with the counter spell.

Dean's starting to realize that the deputy is the type of person that has to sit and consider things a while before they sink in.

Leaving Sam to help the guy read through the counter spell, Dean takes the handcuffs and secures them around Jean's wrists. He tilts his head, studying her. Unconscious, she hardly looks like a murderer, but the sharp pain in Dean's jaw that promises to leave a bruise to rival the one on Sam reminds him otherwise.

"Alright, people. What do you say we get out of here?" Dean claps his hands together, his voice probably a little louder than it needs to be.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

In the end, things don't turn out so bad. The deputy still gets credit for solving Dr. Tate's murder, and Grant moves on to a new foster parent, one that has no desire to commit murder. He also has the promise of emancipation in a year, along with the deputy's endorsement. And Sam and Dean get away scot-free.

They don't know what story Deputy Adams and Grant gave the Sheriff, but whatever it was, it's safe to say it did not include magic spells, cursed apple pies, or Winchesters.

Dean's throat is still sore, the addition of talking making it more painful, but it's a pain he's willing to deal with. He's got a pocketful of cough drops, and two bottles of water, he's good to go.

Sam's in the lobby, returning their room key as Dean loads up the last of their bags and slams the trunk closed. He looks around, breathing in the cool morning air. His nose is finally clear, his sinuses giving up the fight and admitting defeat.

The sound of the lobby door opening and closing causes him to turn around, just in time to see Sam pinching the bridge of his nose, his foot frozen in mid-step as he prepares for a sneeze.

When it seems the sneeze changed its mind, Sam continues to the car, discretely trying to clear his throat.

"So, I was thinking," Dean begins, leaning his elbows on the roof of the car, "Lets head west, check out some of the border towns, get a little authentic Mexican cuisine."

Sam opens the passenger door, but doesn't get inside, choosing instead to mirror Dean's stance, elbows on the roof. "I thought we were going to South Carolina. Remember? The witches coven?"

"_Suspected _coven," Dean corrects, "And I'm not really up for witches right now. Let's go west, get us some tacos and maybe hunt a little werewolf."

"South Carolina is like two states away, Dean," Sam argues.

"And the full moon's only four days away, Sam," Dean counters. When it looks like Sam's preparing to have one of his stare downs, Dean decides to switch tactics.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors?" he asks, hands already raised and in position.

"Seriously?" Sam asks in a tone Dean thinks should only be used with really young children.

"Seriously," Dean says, smiling. "You win, we go to South Carolina. I won't argue."

Sam squints his eyes, clears his throat once more, before raising his hands, quirking an eyebrow.

Dean's smile widens as they begin, both eyes on the other's fist. Where his smile was wide to begin with, it's positively beaming now.

"Didn't expect that did ya?" Dean gloats, waving his 'paper' in the air over Sam's 'rock'. Sam frowns, one nostril flaring as he jerks his chin.

"Two out of three," he demands, and Dean simply shakes his head.

"No way, Sammy. You loose. You a looozuh," he says in a singsong kind of voice, fully enjoying his victory.

Sam looks like he's about to argue, but he's stopped as that itch in his throat demands attention, quickly morphing into a coughing fit.

"Do you need a cough drop," Dean asks nicely, almost too nicely. He takes it out of his pocket, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger. Sam glares at him, and if looks could cause harm, Dean's pretty sure he'd be feeling the pain. "You're looking kind of angry, man. You sure you're okay?"

Sam stretches his arm out across the roof of the car, his hand open, waiting for the cough drop as he continues to cough, his face still angry.

"Come on, Sammy. Use your words," Dean taunts with a crooked smile.

Sam's glare deepens as his elbow bends, his fist rising into the air to extend one particular finger.

"Good enough," Dean tells him, tossing the lozenge and climbing into the front seat. "Come on, Sam. I want me some tacos."

Dean cranks the car, hands his brother a bottle of water, and prepares to put Georgia and her apple pies far behind.

The End.

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**Again thank you, and reviews make me smile.**


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